


#Thirst

by FreetheClam



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: D/s, Dom/sub, Everyone's in their 20-30s, F/M, Inconsistent conceit, Lemon, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Other Additional Pairings to be Added, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PWP, Reader-Insert, Smut, because apparently I can't keep to my own gd frame, for ADULT reasons, for the throwback, maybe not so light?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-10-09 10:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreetheClam/pseuds/FreetheClam
Summary: A general Reader-Insert smut collection, centering around the secretary of one Vongola Decimo.It's not quite like the game Clue: you're the victim, hashtag Thirst is always the murder weapon, but the location and perpetrator are what change with each play.Care to make an Accusation?





	1. #Thirst - The Paris Penthouse - Reborn

“Everything will be wonderful,” Tsuna had said that morning, smiling while he saw you off. His grin had been a touch sharper than usual, dare you say a little …devious? “ _Enjoy_ yourself, and don’t worry about Reborn. You’re in excellent hands.”

There was only one problem. You knew better than to trust Reborn.

You’d known him for a few years now. As Sawada’s secretary, hand-picked to replace his predecessor’s dinosaur of a personal aid, your first trial by fire had been orchestrated by the hitman himself.

You could never look at cumquats the same ever again. You were certain Lambo still shivered whenever someone so much as _breathed_ the phrase ‘the early bird gets the worm.’ At least Tsuna, Gokudera, and Yamamoto seemed largely immune to Reborn’s shenanigans by now.

But the _point_ was that you knew better than to ever trust a damn thing Reborn said—especially if he said it while wearing that smirk (it was not _sexy_ , you told yourself again, it was _conniving_ and _not to be trusted_ ). So Sawada’s words were puzzling to say the least.

It was a test, you decided. It had to be--everything was a test with Reborn. Ergo, this was a test, too. Of what, you had no idea, but you kept your eyes peeled for clues. Not that you would find any that Reborn didn’t flat out give you, but even that tiny warning could make a big difference.

And while, to be fair, Reborn seemed on his best behavior the entire flight from Italy, you couldn’t help but feel tense, on edge, _intensely aware of him_. And when Reborn escorted you into a Vongola-owned penthouse suite some thirty floors above Paris, you were still very suspicious. Flustered by his occasional, gentlemanly touches and his not-so-gentlemanly, almost smoldering stares, you were almost relieved to step away from him into the suite.

The entrance was all glossy slate floors and minimalist décor, leading into an expansive living area with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city lights. They looked dimmed, as though the glass were tinted dark or especially thick. Probably both, with an added benefit of bulletproofing. It was a Vongola building, after all.

There was a wide marble bar that slung into a tidy, modern kitchen area to the left, and to the right were a pair of double-doors, swept wide to give a glimpse of the truly _massive_ bed inside. The entire suite was in white and black with a few silver touches and only a splash of vibrant red as accent. You couldn’t see the bathroom, likely off the bedroom, but you could only assume it was as ridiculously, self-consciously luxurious as the rest of the place.

“Care for a drink?” Reborn asked, slipping your coat from your shoulders and hanging it in an alcove off the entrance. He’d taken off his hat and suit jacket, his tie loosened to reveal just a hint of collarbone and you wondered when the hell he’d had time to unfasten the top few buttons of his shirt.

“Ah, sure,” you said, flicking your eyes away from the exposed skin. Still, you couldn’t resist watching him as he made his way over to the bar; the man was graceful. All long legs and lean torso, confident and capable and somehow even the smooth gesture of rolling up his shirtsleeves was… Okay, yeah, you needed to _focus_.

You were still waiting for him to show his hand, willing to accept any clue or advantage Reborn might toss you. He was too damn smart for his own good half the time, and too smart for everyone else’s good the other half. There was no pride when up against Reborn, just survival.

So you took a seat at the bar a bit warily while he quickly made his selections, only a fraction of your attention on what bottles he chose. You were too busy watching him. And while you told yourself that it was because you shouldn’t take your eyes off him for a second, you knew damn well it was more that you couldn’t. You didn’t often see the hitman without his fedora, and you were fascinated by the unshadowed curve of his brows, the almost delicate line of his nose, the sharp jut of his jaw. You tried to look away, but only found yourself entranced by his long fingers, how his steady hands poured and mixed while the muscles in his forearms shifted until you were blinking into that damn smirk of his because he’d already set your glass in front of you.

You cleared your throat and made a point to engross yourself in taking a sip. It was, of course, precisely to your liking. Reborn excelled at everything he did, after all.

You had to admit, you had been a bit enamored of him at first sight. And then after that truly disastrous introduction, you had staunchly refused to harbor any affectionate sentiment for the devil of a man. Lust you could largely tolerate, with perhaps more than a few late nights alone in the bath or in the quiet of your own bed—and you would deny upon pain of torture just _who_ starred in those midnight fantasies—but you drew the line at affection.

“Do you like that?”

You almost choked on your second sip. Reborn’s tone had been positively _sinful_ , velvety and husky and low and you could feel heat pooling between your thighs even as it filled your face. The man was a damn _weapon_.

You cleared your throat again and nodded. “Yes,” you finally managed. “Yes, it’s delicious, thank you.”

He made a pleased humming sound that went straight to your hyperactive libido. You swallowed another drink to combat the sudden dryness in your mouth, but then you met his eyes and you _knew_ he was doing it on purpose.

Was this it? Was this the test?

…Well, you _weren’t letting him win_.

You took a deep, fortifying breath and wrangled the fracturing heat in your veins into a single purpose. Reborn thought he could seduce you? Hah! You’d just have to seduce him _harder_.

You raised your glass again, letting your tongue dart out to lick a bit of moisture from the rim before you took another sip, eyeing Reborn from under your lashes. His own drink froze halfway to his face; it was only for the breath of a second, but you saw it and the thrill you felt was dangerously addictive.

Reborn’s eyes were glued to your mouth now, all dark and dilated and _hot_.

You took another sip and let out a long, quiet moan. “It tastes so _good_ ,” you said, letting out a carefully satisfied sigh.

His mouth parted, just a touch, and holy hell if his gaze had been hot before… But Reborn was not to be outdone. He smiled, a slightly crooked tilting of his lips, and he returned your gaze with heavy-lidded eyes.

“I like to please,” he said, and despite the heat of the exchange you almost laughed at what seemed a _blatant lie_. You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face though, and he returned it cheekily. Then he gently grabbed your hand and brought it to his mouth, not kissing it but letting it rest there so you could _feel_ his lips move against your knuckles as he said, “Especially such a beauty.”

Your heart actually fluttered. In retaliation, you nudged your half-empty glass closer to him and injected a bit of pleading into your voice when you said, “More. Please?”

His grip on your hand tightened a fraction, but he skimmed his lips over your knuckles (you shivered and mentally cursed the reaction) and straightened. You found your own eyes glued to his mouth when he licked his lips, eyeing you in a way you could only call predatory. He looked almost feral for a moment, but he inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring ever so slightly, and mixed you a second drink.

If you hadn’t been _terribly distracted_ by those eyes of his, the sheer weight of them on you, the _heat_ of them, you would have wondered at his ability to perfectly replicate the drink without looking away from you. But you really were very preoccupied by his gaze, so much so that you almost fumbled your glass when he topped it off.

You cleared your throat yet again, taking refuge in a sip and, when a cold drop of condensation dripped onto your chest, you leapt at the opportunity. You murmured a small “Oh,” and trailed your fingers down the path of the droplet. Your blouse was rather modest, but you capitalized on what cleavage it did show by chasing that droplet further than it’d run, letting the neckline pull a bit as you ‘wiped’ it away.

You could feel those eyes on you, on your chest. The blouse stayed a bit open, and you made no move to fix it, feeling victorious as you glanced up at Reborn—and promptly froze. You’d gotten his attention, all right, and you weren’t sure you could breathe under the intensity of _that look_.

You swallowed hard, and Reborn’s eyes flicked up to your neck to watch the muscles move, to all but caress your racing pulse beneath the delicate skin. Your next breath was shakier, and you bit your lip at the sound of it trembling in your throat.

Reborn snapped his eyes up, tracing your bottom lip as it scraped out from between your teeth and finally settling on your eyes.

You felt _consumed_. Fuck, he’d barely even _touched you_.

Reborn seemed to gather himself, watching your uneven breathing and flushed face; he smirked at you, all sultry and satisfied and _knowing_.

You took a deep breath and, emboldened by your apparent ability to stun him, leaned over the bar just enough to make your blouse gape a little farther. Your mouth was well within kissing distance, and while you’d rather whisper it in his ear, you could work with this. You reached up, sliding your hand up his firm chest to grip his loosened tie.

“Don’t be so smug,” you said, not even trying to hide the huskiness in your voice. “It looks too good on you.”

You gave his tie a short tug before turning away and rising from your seat; you walked toward the windows, putting some extra swing into your hips as you went to admire the view, glass in hand. “Besides,” you said, unable to resist throwing a hooded glance over your shoulder at him. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

You sipped your drink and pretended to stare at the city, but you were watching Reborn’s reflection intently. That predatory look was back on his face, and his smirk was firmly set on his lips. You watched him loosen his tie more, take a casual sip from his drink, and move around the bar to saunter up behind you.

“And what must I do,” he asked when he was close enough to touch, “to earn it?”

You hummed, feeling a smirk of your own covering your mouth. You glanced at him, making sure to look through your lashes again, and licked your lips. “You like to please,” you answered. “You tell me.”

Reborn’s smile was deadly. You felt your heart hammer in your chest as he leaned forward to grab your drink, setting it and his on a convenient side-table. And then he was in your personal space, so close you could feel the warmth of him but still not touching you.

“I’d like to hear you say it,” Reborn said, in that low, velvety tone. He raised a hand to lightly stroke your jaw, a barely-there caress that had your nerves scrambling to attention. You barely resisted the urge to turn into the touch, to make it firmer, to make it _real_.

“I asked first.” It was all you could think of, what with your brain half-melted with lust.

Reborn tsked, his fingers ghosting down your jaw to taunt your neck. God, why wouldn’t he just _touch you already_. “Play nice,” he said. “Or you’ll get into trouble.”

“Why would I want to play nice,” you said, breathing already rapid and uneven, “when you promise me trouble?” You smirked, leaning close to near-whimper in his ear. “Maybe I want you to _punish me_ , _Reborn_.”

Something in his posture shifted, and you had a tiny moment to realize that he must _really like his name called_ before you got what you wanted: his body tight against yours. Chest to chest, hip to hip, as your back roughly met the window behind you and Reborn’s mouth was hot and wet at your neck while he skimmed his hands up your waist and then down to your hips.

You gasped at the sudden _heat_ of it before Reborn gave a hard suck, separated, and moved to nibble sharply at your ear. Then he started talking, voice raspy and almost gruff. “Do you know what I want to do to you?” he asked, pausing his touches to pull your hips against his, against the burgeoning erection there, for a hot second before his hands were wandering again. “I want to _fuck you_ , right here at the window, in front of all of Paris, until my name is all you can say.”

You moaned, hands gripping his lean back as his mouth latched onto your neck again. He pressed closer to you until your shoulder blades were flat against the panes. The glass was cold through your thin blouse, but all you could think was that you wanted it off, _now_.

You ran a hand up his nape to grip his hair, turning your head so your lips were flush with his ear and said, “Then do it.”

Reborn _growled_ , relinquishing your neck to crush his lips against yours in a feverish kiss.

You opened your mouth almost before his tongue slid across your lips, nipping at the intrusion and then sucking _hard_. You smiled when you felt Reborn’s shudder, tugging lightly at his hair and pushing him closer. His hand found your ass, giving it a firm squeeze and then using it as extra leverage to grind his hips against yours.

You whimpered at the hardness pressing against your lower abdomen, canting your hips and hooking a leg around one of his for a better angle. He grunted at the shift and thrust a thigh between your legs, pressing it up tight against your aching core. Your mouths stayed melded, tongues tangling sloppily as you began to lightly rock against him, seeking what friction you could.

But the tight press of his thigh against you, even with your hips moving in time to the thrusts of your tongues, wasn’t enough. You whined, relinquishing your hold on Reborn’s hair in favor of yanking on his shirt. You wanted _closer_ , craved the feel of his skin sliding against yours. You wanted to touch him.

Reborn broke away, and for a dazed moment all you could do was gasp and stare. He looked good mussed, you thought dazedly, with his hair a mess from your gripping fingers and his lips kiss-swollen and eyes so, so dark; he was wearing that smug look again, panting faintly. You leaned up to kiss away that smirk, but he grinned wider and nipped your bottom lip before diving for your throat.

His mouth skimmed the column of your neck, pausing to scrape his teeth just hard enough to elicit a gasp, and then he was nibbling at the skin of your chest, just above the edge of your blouse. His tongue followed the earlier path of your fingers, sliding across your skin to dip slightly into your cleavage.

And then Reborn straightened and, grasping the hem of your blouse, whipped the garment up and over your head. And then it was off, and your somewhat lacy bra was exposed. He made an appreciative noise, barely more than a growl, and you shivered. His mouth returned to your chest, first the caress of his lips just above the edge of your bra before his fingers tugged the cups down, and then the sharp edge of teeth as he carefully bit down on one mound. Your whole body jerked, and you gave a small cry as he started sucking a bruise onto your breast. 

He groaned into the flesh, his other hand sliding up to stroke your other breast, gently teasing the peak while he focused his efforts on tormenting you. You lost track of the noises you made, aware only vaguely that you _were_ making noise; his mouth was amazing, his tongue hot and talented as it explored the curve of your breast and—your back arched off the glass when he took your nipple into his mouth. You keened, fingers threading through his hair again as he did wicked things with his teeth and tongue, toying with the sensitive bud before laving and sucking and then doing it all over again.

By the time he switched to your other breast, your bra was somewhere on the floor and you were lost in a thick haze of arousal. It didn’t take long before you were stuttering out half-formed pleas, squirming and squeezing your thighs together and almost _begging_ for him to touch you there.

He released your nipple with a final hard suck and a ‘pop,’ hands already unzipping your skirt and smoothing it down your ass. The garment slipped to the floor and his eyes were almost black as he loomed over you, taking you in, panting and _hungry_.

He leaned in to nibble at your jaw. “So beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, “so responsive for me.” He left a trail of kisses up and over your cheeks, across your eyes, down your nose, before ravishing your lips again.

You arched into him, but he pulled away, burying his head between your breasts. You made a low, needy sound and Reborn laughed, the sound breathy and ragged. “Patience,” he murmured against your sternum. “Patience, pet.”

He continued to sink down, dragging his lips down your front until he was on his knees. Your brain was too fogged to realize what he was doing until he had hooked your leg onto his shoulder, his lips gliding along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh to the edge of your panties. You gasped as his tongue licked at the seam of your thigh and pelvis before it slipped under the edge of your panties. He teased the skin hidden there, then gently grazed his teeth along the front of the soft fabric.

Reborn nipped at the hem of your panties and continued to nibble at your inner thigh, and it wasn’t until you gave a particularly needy moan that he brought his fingers up to gently stroke at the wet center of your undergarments. He paused to suck another mark into your inner thigh while clever fingers stroked you through the cotton, and your hips jerked closer. He hummed and pressed you harder against the glass of the window, one arm laid firmly across your hips while the other slipped under your panties to caress your folds.

“R-Reborn—”

He scraped his teeth over the new mark on your thigh and you gasped, arching into his hold. His teeth grasped the edge of your panties and he met your gaze, trapping you in an intense stare as he slid the garment down. Your leg slipped from his shoulder, and he released your underwear but not your eyes. His hands skimmed down your legs, taking the panties with them, before your thigh was back on his shoulder and his mouth was an open, wet heat against your core.

He never broke eye contact. 

You cried out at the sudden, delicious feeling of his mouth on you—finally, _finally_ where you wanted him—and buried your hands in his hair, desperate for something to ground you. His arm was back against your hips, anchoring you to the window while his tongue slipped between your folds for a long, hard lick. His fingers were still toying with you, stroking your inner thigh and teasing the skin along your pelvis, but your core was subject to his mouth alone.

He zeroed in on your clit and began licking, sharp, hard strokes that left you trembling, head thrown back and eyes clamped shut. He closed his lips around the nub and sucked, carefully dragging an edge of teeth along the tender bud, and you arched your back with a whimper of his name. The low groan he answered you with sounded approving, and he shifted lower to trace his tongue around your entrance, slipping the tip in just a fraction before withdrawing and circling, again and again.

You were panting and clutching at his hair now, tugging him closer and mindlessly undulating your hips within his grasp.  When he finally thrust his tongue inside, you gasped out a broken “ _Fuck_ ” and shuddered.

He continued to tease you, thrusting until you were entirely worked up and then withdrawing to nibble at your folds, moving in to suck and stroke your clit until you were tense and trembling and _close_ again before easing back and starting over.

You babbled something incoherent and needy, surprised at the rawness of your voice, and you met Reborn’s eyes again. He was still looking up at you, gaze sharp and focused and intense as he watched your every reaction. You whimpered and jerked your hips against his hold again, insistent and wanton and too far gone for words.

You felt Reborn’s grin against your core, and then his mouth was on your clit again, tongue stroking while his fingers teased at your entrance. He slipped one digit inside easily, his teasing having more than prepared you. After a moment, a second finger joined the first, and he began a slow, lazy rhythm. Your body felt like a livewire, hot and shaky and writhing and then Reborn crooked his fingers and _pressed_ at the same time that he sucked your clit and stars exploded in your eyes.

You’re certain you called his name, or as near as you could manage when coming so hard. It seemed to go on and on, Reborn coaxing you further and further until the waves spreading from your throbbing, clenching core were too much, too sensitive, and you were tugging at Reborn and begging him to ease off.

He relented immediately, as if all he were waiting for were your almost nonsensical pleas of “Too much, can’t, please, too much, can’t, I—fuck—”

Reborn left tender love bites along your hip where his arm had held you, waiting for you to finish coming down. When your breathing was ragged but not gasping, and your helpless whimpers of post-orgasmic pleasure had faded, he rose and nuzzled his nose against yours, pulling you almost gently against him.

It was an unexpectedly affectionate gesture, and you would have marveled at it were your brain more functional. But for now you pulled his face down farther for a deep, lazy kiss, groaning at the lingering taste of yourself on his tongue. You could feel his erection pressing low against your abdomen, and you arched into it, pressing against him and nibbling his bottom lip.

Reborn let out a positively delicious moan, and you felt a hot stirring in your gut, your arousal rapidly rebuilding. You scraped your nails down his back and delighted in the grunt of pleasure it earned you. And you became very annoyed that he was still wearing his shirt.

You began tugging on the remaining buttons of the garment, suddenly desperate to feel him bare against you, and you whimpered when your shaky fingers fumbled with the simple closures. Reborn broke away from your mouth, gripped the fabric, and yanked it off, sacrificing a few buttons for haste, and then his lips were back on yours, his hands greedily stroking your skin until they landed on your ass, cupping and squeezing and bringing your hips roughly against his once more.

You slid your hands down his chest, moaning at the feel of soft skin over hard muscle, gliding your curious fingers over every dip and ridge of his leanly toned abdomen. You teased the skin above his pants, pressing your chest against him and relishing in the slide of skin on skin.

He groaned that deliciously pleased sound again, gripping your ass harder before one hand slid up to cup your breast. You somehow managed to work the buckle of his belt and slid the button of his slacks free, despite the distraction of his fingers on your over-sensitized nipple, and your hands eagerly slid under the fabric of his boxer briefs, seeking the hardness that was pressed so snugly against you.

You barely grazed his erection, just a hint of hot velvet over iron, before his hands grabbed your wrists and you were whirled around. You gasped at the cold of the glass against your tender breasts, tugging on his grip with a needy whine. He shifted to one hand, but his hold was no less secure for it. His free hand stroked down the line of your spine in a firm, _possessive_ caress.

“I want to touch you,” you whimpered, tugging again at his hold on your wrists.

Reborn growled, teeth digging into your shoulder and his hips pressing against your ass, the hard ridge of his dick an undeniable pressure against you. You could feel the heat of it through those last layers of fabric, and you surged your hips back to rub yourself against it. Reborn’s unsteady groan was well worth the light, almost playful slap he gave your ass.

“Next time,” he said, voice rough and thick, “you can touch all you want.” He nibbled your earlobe for a moment. “Next time, you can put that lovely mouth around my cock.”

You shivered, arching into him with moan at the spike of heat that image brought.

“Do you want that?” He asked, and you could feel him moving behind you. “Do you want my cock in your mouth?”

Your garbled response wasn’t quite a yes, but it was unmistakably positive. Reborn’s answering groan was low and eager. “Next time,” he whispered, as though to convince himself of it, before cursing and groaning against your shoulder, “Do you know what you do to me?”

And then he was binding your wrists together behind your back with the silken length of his tie. “Have you any idea how long I’ve wanted you?” he continued, pressing biting kisses up and down your neck. You gasped when his hands slid around you to grasp your breasts. “How much I’ve thought of this?”

“Please.” You moaned, arching into his touch and grinding your ass against his erection. “ _Please_.”

Reborn cursed again, hands stroking down your sides to grip your hips in a hard grasp. “You beg so sweetly, pet,” he growled in your ear. One hand left your hip and you heard the metallic clink of his belt buckle as he pulled his slacks down farther. “How can I refuse you when you beg so well?”

There was the sound of tearing foil, and for a few moments Reborn released your hips altogether. And then his hands were back, hot and tight and bruising. He jerked your ass back and with a firm hand at your shoulder blades pressed your breasts against the cold window. One hand stayed on your hip, thumb stroking as he leaned in close to your ear.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked.

You whined, wiggling your hips and feeling frustrated and almost frantic with want. You nodded your head eagerly, the cool glass of the window almost a relief against your overheated skin.

Reborn tsked. “You’re doing so well, pet,” he said, teasing your wetness with the tip of his cock. “But I want to hear you to _say it_.”

It took a few tries to get the words out, your brain feeling like so much sizzling putty. But after a few desperate, needy murmurs, you finally managed a coherent, “Please, Reborn, please— _fuck me, Reborn_.”

He groaned, biting down on your shoulder as he thrust into you. You nearly sobbed with relief at the sudden spike of pleasure, and Reborn breathed a few choice curses, releasing your flesh from his love bite to mumble filth against your throat.

After a moment, Reborn set a hard rhythm, and it wasn’t long before your mouth was garbling out pleas and praises and you didn’t know what else. He kissed and sucked at your neck while he kept his grueling pace, the lewd _slap, slap, slap_ of flesh against flesh filling the suite. Your wrists tugged at their bonds while your moans and cries were getting louder, and you shifted your hips to meet his thrusts as best you could with so little leverage.

“That’s it, pet,” Reborn grunted, not slowing as he slid his mouth up to press against your ear. “Tell me how much you love this, tell Paris how much you love my cock.”

You sobbed out his name, your whole body trembling with pleasure. With every hard thrust, your breasts slid against the glass, your sensitive nipples puckering at the cold and the friction. Reborn’s hands were firm on your hips, guiding your ass into the hard snap of his hips and sending you reeling with each thick slide of his cock.

He murmured dirty things in your ear, growling out compliments and encouragements and _promises_ —how good you felt, how tight and wet and _hot_ , and how beautiful you were pressed against the glass for Paris, for his cock, and urging you louder, say his name, tell him how good you feel, do you want more? He’ll give you more, he’ll give you everything, he’ll have you screaming every night, coming over and over because you’re being such a _good girl_ for him.

The glass was fogged up, but you had long since stopped seeing the city lights. You were covered in a sheen of sweat, hips tingling with Reborn’s bruising grip, mind swimming with his filthy praises. You hovered on the cusp of orgasm, moaning and gasping and calling his name over and over.

“ _Close—_ ” you finally managed, but a particularly well-angled thrust made the word strangle into a helpless cry, your hips jerking unsteadily in his grasp.

“Do you want to come, pet?” Reborn asked roughly, and while his rhythm didn’t stutter, his voice was a gravelly mess, his own small moans and grunts becoming more and more ragged, choked. _He was close_ , and the thought made you almost jittery, excited, _wanting_.

“Tell me what you want,” he growled. “Tell me.”

“Please,” you cried. “Let me come—I’ve been good, let me come, please, please, _please_ —”

Reborn swore, a vicious curse weakened by how shaky and hoarse his voice was becoming. One hand released your hips to slide around and delve his fingers into your folds, finding your clit with ease and working it masterfully. “ _Come_ ,” Reborn all but snarled against your ear.

You jerked against him, the cry of his name faltering into a mess of mindless sounds as you came hard. Your vision faded out, your entire focus on the pulsing pleasure at your core as Reborn continued to milk every wave of your orgasm.

He was groaning out curses, his hips stuttering in sharp, uneven thrusts, but he worked you until your body gave one final spasm. When you gasped, shaking, and whimpered in satisfied relief, Reborn buried his head in your neck and sped up, thrusting once, twice, before he was mumbling your name against your throat, the syllables melting into a bone-deep groan as he came.

For a few moments, you stayed like that: pressed against the glass, Reborn’s body a warm, solid weight behind you as he panted against your neck. He drew away for a few moments, likely disposing of the condom, before he was wrapping his arms around you again. Reborn slid down, pulling you with him, to sit on the plush carpet with you a heap of hazy endorphins in his lap. He untied your hands and cradled you there, your back against his chest and the Parisian night laid out in front of you as he gently rubbed the faint marks on your wrists.

He skimmed his lips against your shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice quiet and sated and still raspy.

You hummed, snuggling deeper into his hold. “Never better,” you murmured, relishing in the sated, jelly-weak feeling of your muscles.

He continued to nuzzle at your shoulder and neck, hands lightly—perhaps even fondly?—stroking over your hands and playing with your fingers. For a few moments, you both rested, gently caressing each other and enjoying the buzzing pleasure of the afterglow while Paris glowed through the window.

“Reborn?” you said. He gave a contended hum to let you know he was listening. “About the windows… We can see the view, but the view can’t see us—right?”

You felt him smirk against your shoulder. “And what would you do if I said it could?” There was a light scrape of teeth at your neck, and you shivered, shamelessly arching into him. You made a point to grind your ass into his crotch and were rewarded when he muffled a small groan of approval against your throat.

“I’d say we should move round two the comically huge bed.”

Reborn huffed out a quiet laugh, sliding his lips along your neck to swipe his tongue at the sensitive skin just under your ear, and said, “I do like to please.”

 


	2. North Wing Library - Enma

 

Enma was very certain that this was neither a reasonable or very healthy response to have, but his dick wasn’t listening.

You were just so _kind_ to him and his family. Whenever Koyo got worked up, you chided him gently and gave him an alternate outlet for his energy. Whenever Shitoppi-chan was particularly…bizarre, even by the Simon’s acclimated standards, you just chatted along happily like nothing were out of the ordinary. Whenever Enma stumbled or put his foot in his mouth or otherwise just made a general fool of himself, you were always so…perfect.

He had tripped and toppled a fresh vase of flowers onto you. You sputtered, gave a small huff of disbelief, and then started laughing at the ridiculousness of it.

He accidentally implied you were behaving…inappropriately close to Tsuna, his friend— _your boss_ —and instead of slapping him like he deserved, you just smirked and flipped the innuendo back on him, dissipating the tension immediately.

He felt overwhelmed after an ally meeting, half humiliated and half _infuriated_ , and you brought him hot cocoa and some cookies, sitting with him in near silence for more than an hour and just… _being there_.

Enma was, he knew, completely enamored with his best friend’s secretary.

Infatuation he could deal with, though; the _problem_ was whenever he caught you being generous to his family, or whenever you did something out of your way to make him more comfortable at the manor, or hell, whenever you so much as _smiled at him_ and suddenly all he could think of was burying his face between your thighs and working his tongue over you until you forgot your own name.

Lust. Lust was his problem. You were just being _nice_ to him, and it was driving him _crazy_. He probably should have gotten therapy, like Adel used to drop hints about—and sometimes still did, on occasion.

Hello, doctor, yes, I want to fuck my friend’s secretary silly because she’s a nice person to me and I dream about her riding my face until she’s screaming my name and do you take cash or credit?

And today it was somehow much worse. Because you were being _kind_ to him again. You were being kind to him, alone in the cozy, north-wing library, and you were wearing a rather tight-fitted skirt.

What was _wrong_ with him? He was an important guest of the Vongola Decimo, so of course the don’s secretary would make a point to ensure his comfort; you were doing your job. And your outfit was perfectly respectable!

It was _he_ who was making it dirty, thinking about the neckline of your blouse, about kissing his way past the few dainty buttons at the top that were already undone. _He_ was the pervert who couldn’t stop imagining how your stockings would feel against his palms as he skimmed that tight skirt up your legs, past your hips to bunch at your waist. Were you wearing a garter belt? _God help him if you were wearing a garter belt_.

“Feeling better?” Your voice was quiet, gentle—concerned.

Enma discreetly shifted, trying to relieve the pressure in his pants from his _very overactive imagination_. He cleared his throat and arranged himself to lean toward you on his chair, one hand coming up to rest casually on the arm. At least, he hoped it looked casual, because he was busy trying really hard not to think about the sloping curves of your body as you relaxed in the chair next to his. He took a sip of the hot chocolate you had brought to buy himself more time to scrabble together a sense of composure.

“Yes,” he finally said. “Thank you again.”

Your fond smile made his heart throb with his quickening pulse. As well _other_ parts of him much further south.

God, he was such a _pervert_.

“Tsuna would have backed you,” you said, voice cautious and soft. You sent him a look he recognized by now: telling him you would back off if he didn’t want to talk about it.

“I know,” Enma answered, sending you a small smile to alieve your caution. He took another sip of cocoa, trying to organize his thoughts into the words he wanted. “But…he shouldn’t have to. I hate to think I’m causing…conflict.” He winced. He knew it was probably ironic, considering how he and Tsuna had cemented their friendship when they were kids. “I mean—” he stopped and sighed heavily.

Your hand on his shoulder jolted him. It must have shown, because you withdrew it immediately with a soft apology and all he wanted was for you to touch him again. He could barely strangle out a meek “S’okay,” past his own pathetic longing. 

“CEDEF will change hands in the next year,” you murmured, voice quiet. There was no one else in the room, probably no one else in this wing of the manor, all over in the east ballroom for the afternoon luncheon. But you kept your voice low enough that only the two of you could have heard it.

“It’s not that,” Enma answered, keeping his voice as low as yours. You leaned a little closer, making the conversation suddenly feel intensely intimate, and Enma’s skin prickled like someone had dumped ice down his shirt. “It’s not Sawada. It’s…everyone else.”

It was the older members of the allied families in particular, the ones who remembered the Flood of Blood. They looked at the Simon and saw runts who _should_ have been exterminated years ago. They thought about Enma’s fight with Tsuna as teenagers, the battle blown into extraordinary proportions by rumor and time, and they watched him like he was about to slit the Decimo’s throat at any moment.

It was politics, and it was _exhausting_.

And Enma knew that Tsuna would badger, berate, and flat out bully anyone who tried to mess with the Simon. But Enma didn’t want him to do that, didn’t like how _tired_ Tsuna always seemed as it was. It wasn’t fair of him to add his own Family’s problems onto his friend.

“They’ll die out eventually.” The sarcasm in your voice softened the sentiment, and it wrangled a sardonic quirk to Enma’s lips.

“I dunno,” he said into his cocoa. “Cockroaches can survive a surprisingly long time.”

You snort, hiding a chuckle behind a sip of hot chocolate. “Cockroaches are gross,” you finally said after controlling your laughter.

Enma wished you’d let yourself laugh more; he loved the sound of it, the way it lit up your face. He set his cocoa down on a side table, trying not to feel pathetic at how _smitten_ he sounded, even to himself.

“But ultimately harmless,” you continued quietly. For a moment, he had to backpedal to remember the thread of the conversation. Your eyes were soft when he met them, that strangely fond look on your face again. Enma had never dared to hope that that fondness was for him. “They’re an infestation, but one made largely of vegetarians. All hiss, no bite.”

When your hand rested lightly, comfortingly on his, he couldn’t stop his eyes from dropping to track the contact. Swallowing down the hammering of his heart in his chest, he turned his hand so your palms were flat against each other. You didn’t pull away. A deep breath for courage, and he softly stroked his fingers along yours, teasing and curious.

And again, you didn’t pull away.

Another deep breath and he managed to look up, checking your face for something—anything—that might tell him to stop. He’d back off in a second if you made any indication that you didn’t want his touch. But you were still smiling at him in that soft, inviting way and Enma wanted to _fuck you into the nearest wall_.

His next breath was shakier, and he knew his face reflected his thoughts because you paused, quirking your head at him ever so slightly with a bemused expression, like you couldn’t _fathom_ where this lust had come from or why it was being directed at you.

He could show you. _Dear God, please let him show you_.

You leaned toward him, your cup clinking quietly on the side table as you set it aside and that cautious, stop-me-if-I’m-overstepping look on your face again. For a second, Enma actually wasn’t sure what you were asking. Then your darkening eyes flitted to his lips, and he was _gone_.

In the next heartbeat, his hand found itself half-tangled in your hair and his lips were hard against yours. You responded immediately, and Enma almost groaned. He angled his head, deepening the kiss and nibbling at your bottom lip. You made a soft noise and opened your lips to him, and Enma felt like he was on _fire_.

You tasted like hot chocolate. He probably did, too.

Your tongue was in his mouth, and he wanted this to never end. He pushed his tongue against yours, sliding and tangling and tasting. Your hand gripped his shirt, fisting against his collarbone, and Enma pulled you out of your chair and onto his lap. Your gasp was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

His hands set about mapping your body, roaming your sides and back before finally slipping down to slide against your silky stockings as he worked that skirt up your thighs. As soon as it was high enough, he tugged your leg to straddle him properly. You moaned, setting your pelvis against his in a perfect fit and giving a little shimmy that had Enma’s hips jerking up in response.

He squeezed your thighs, hands climbing up and over your hips before sliding up your torso to tease at the ribs just under your breasts. You made a delicious noise and began unbuttoning your blouse, not once breaking the kiss. Enma didn’t hesitate to help you tug it off, hands caressing their way back up your arms to cup you through your bra, teasing your nipples into hard peaks beneath the thin, lacy material. Your hands gripped his nape, shifted to tug at his hair, and Enma groaned. He broke the kiss long enough meet your gaze, settling his hands safely against your sides.

You met his stare with a glazed expression, eyed dilated and lips reddened from his kisses. You had certainly been enthusiastic in your responses to his mouth, to his touches, but he needed to know for sure. He needed you to _say it_ before he went too far.

“Are you sure—”

You cut him off with a grind of your hips, pulling his head back by his hair and turning his question into a drawn-out groan. Your mouth was suddenly on his throat, teeth scraping and tongue laving up the flesh until your lips were at his ear. “ _Fuck me_.”

Enma himself wasn’t sure how he managed it without slamming his head against one of the side tables, but somehow he flipped you back into your chair, following after to kneel between your knees with a desperate “ _Yes_.”

He leaned up to skim his mouth from your collarbone down to your breasts and then further, kissing and sucking at the skin he found on the way. You moaned his name, tone surprised and eager, when he began to nibble at the hem of your skirt. You moved to unzip it, but he stopped you, giving each wrist a reprimanding love bite before he pulled your skirt up, past that last stretch of thigh and over your hips to bunch at your waist.

He had to pause, his breath stalling in his lungs as he took in your lacy red panties and matching garters. You didn’t have a belt, but the sight of the frilled elastic against the sheer stocking, tight against your flesh, was plenty to make his cock twitch in his pants. Enma vaguely made a note to buy you garter belts if you’d let him, in as many colors as you could want, and bent to nibble around your inner thigh, right at the edge of one of the lacy, elastic bands. 

He licked and nipped and teased, but he didn’t pull it down. Later, he told himself. If you allowed him a later, he would slide them off with his teeth, unrolling the stocking like a naughty present just for the two of you. But for now, they would stay on, along with your heels.

Enma took his time approaching your core, easing ever so slowly up your inner thigh to lick at the seam where it met your pelvis, and then he started on the other leg. By the time he reached the edge of your panties a second time, you were tugging hard on his hair and whining with the most delectable frustration.  He considered waiting for you to beg, but discarded the thought soon after. He was too impatient to wait.

Instead, he opened his mouth and kissed you through your panties, tonguing where the cloth was most dampened and relishing in how you fisted your hands in his hair, pulling him closer to your heat.

You murmured something indistinct but _pleading_ , and Enma groaned, pulling away just enough to rip the panties off before his mouth was on you again. He wanted to draw this out more, to fill you with his tongue until you were writhing, but he didn’t think he could last that long. So he didn’t tease; his tongue found your clit almost immediately and a finger began to circle your entrance. He quickly discovered that he _loved_ the sound of his name on your lips, especially when you called in that husky, needy tone.

He slid in one digit, stroking and thrusting gently before adding a second, all the while licking and sucking at your clit. Your grip was almost painful in his hair, and you were all but burying him in your folds, hips moving as you arched and tried to ride his mouth. Enma made an needy sound of his own, and it probably would have embarrassed him if he weren’t so _busy making you come_.

Your first orgasm had your legs shaking, hips jerking, and his name a beautiful moan at your lips. He didn’t stop his ministrations, hooking your legs over his shoulders and adding a third digit to his thrusting fingers, spelling compliments against your clit with his tongue. When you seemed trapped between coming down and coming again, he curled his fingers mid-stroke and gently scraped his teeth against your clit.

You didn’t manage his name this time, but your frantic mewls still went straight to his twitching cock. He groaned, palming himself roughly through his pants. God, he loved the scent of you, the taste of you, the _sound_ of you; it was enough to put him at the edge just from this.

But he didn’t want to come like this, not yet. Not if this was his only chance to have you, to be _inside_ you.

Your trembling eased and he backed off, licking his lips and sucking your taste from his fingers. You keened quietly, watching him intently. He had a rough idea of how he probably looked, pulling his fingers from his mouth, lips wet and red from his work, eyes dilated with lust. He felt half-wild from the need pulsing in his cock. Had he ever been so hard before? He wasn’t sure, and at the moment he didn’t much care.

 “How do you want me?” he asked, voice raspy with arousal.

You made another delicious mewl, as if the words alone were enough to kick-start you all over again, and then you slid from the chair and into his lap. You tugged at his shirt, and Enma pulled it over his head, feeling too overcome by the sight, the _feel_ of you straddling him like this to deal with unfastening the buttons. Your hands dragged down his chest, nails scraping against his skin, and then your hands were at his tenting slacks, one tugging at the belt buckle while the other stroked him outside his pants. He shuddered, hips lifting into your touch and his hands gripping your hips to pull you closer.

“Now,” you said, voice more a breathy whine than anything. “Here. Please.”

Enma groaned, capturing your mouth against his for a hungry kiss. He wanted you to never stop talking, to tell him what you wanted, what you were feeling, what you needed of him. He wanted to _please_ you.

His belt was loosened and his pants undone almost before he realized it, your hands quick to delve into his boxers for his erection. It was weeping precum, the head slick and sensitive and he almost whimpered at your first, demanding stroke from base to tip. His breath was caught in his lungs, his head falling back, and he was making weak, gasping noises as you explored his length.

When you cupped his balls, giving a gentle squeeze, he had to pull your hands away or he’d be too far gone to do this properly. He reached for his back pocket, taking the brief reprieve to get himself back under control, and dug a condom from his wallet. (Adel always insisted on being prepared, even if Enma had been unwaveringly skeptical.)

His hands were trembling as he tore the packet open, but your fingers were both a steadying guide and terrible temptation as you helped him roll the slick latex down his cock. He buried his face in your chest, mouthing at the curve of a breast just above the red lace of your bra, while you gripped him at the base and lined up him. There was a moment where you hovered above him, when he could feel the heat of you, the promise of tight, wet friction. And then you were sinking down onto him and he really did whimper, dazed by the incredible feeling of finally being _inside you_ , and he wondered how he could have possibly lived so long with never knowing this pleasure.

You moaned, settling atop him for a few ragged breaths before you were raising yourself again. He let you set the pace, knowing he’d been aggressive in his desperation to get his mouth on you and wanting you to have this control. Your rhythm was hard but slow, and he felt each roll of your hips to his very bones. His hands splayed on your back to help support you, then drifted distractedly downwards, pausing to stroke over your ass before gripping your thighs over those delightful red garters.

He was probably leaving bruises in your thighs while you rode him, pressing purple little fingerprints into your skin and a part of him felt a little guilty but a larger part felt a dark surge of satisfaction. If this was his only chance to know you like this, he wanted to leave a reminder. With a moan, he abandoned your breast to lick up your chest, nibbling at your collarbone before latching onto your throat and sucking hard.

You moaned little praises to him, fingers groping along his back and shoulders up his nape to scrape your nails along his scalp. He devoured each word, unable to resist thrusting his hips up to meet yours or urging you on with the pressure of his fingers digging into your thighs. The lace of your garters were a thin imprint against his palms, his grip spread wide to encompass the sheer layer of stocking below and your thigh just above. He could feel the softness of your skin, the silkiness of the stockings, the almost rough texture of the garters, all while you kept that maddening pace, sliding slowly up his cock only to come back down with an almost jarring impact of hips. He felt breathless, unmoored, drowning in the overpowering _friction_.

He wasn’t sure when he stopped sucking a mark into your neck, but at some point he had left off that endeavor in favor of slurring praise to you, strangled moans and broken murmurs in your ear. He was only vaguely aware of what he was saying, telling you how beautiful you looked riding him, how incredible you felt on his cock, how much he needed you right now, needed you for so long, how much he’d wanted to taste you and fuck you and love you and _please don’t stop, never stop, he never wanted this to end_.

Your moans were becoming high and frequent, little gasping cries that matched your rapidly quickening pace. Gasping at the fast, hard rhythm you were demanding, Enma spread his knees for better leverage, meeting your thrusts and your fervor with an increasingly desperate edge. He felt one of your hands loosen its grip on his nape and glanced down to watch it drift down his abdomen to where your bodies met, fingers sliding between your folds to rub quickly at your clit. Enma watched open-mouthed as you worked yourself hard, watched you ride his cock in a fast, hypnotizing dance of in and out, in and out, and he was instantly in love with the sight.

Enma could feel the familiar hot tension low in his spine, recognized the pulsing, twitching pleasure in his cock. With a gasping moan, he tore his gaze away from the searing sight of your body taking his in, over and over and over, to press his lips frantically against your ear. His voice was barely more than a whimper, a plea of “close, please, so close, come with me, please come with me,” and then you were arching into him, lace-covered breasts pressed against his chest, a wanton cry erupting in that husky voice, your pace stuttering and your core clenching around him and Enma had to muffle his rough, garbled cry of your name against your shoulder, biting down in a desperate attempt to control his volume and coming so hard he thought for a wild moment that he was about to pass out.

It took an embarrassingly long time for him to return to his senses. His arms were snug around your waist, his face buried in your neck, and he was a gasping, trembling mess. Your fingers were playing with his hair, gentle and lazy, and your breathing was still uneven.

He knew he should take care of the condom, dispose of it before he softened too much and it made an absolute mess, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from you. The thought of getting up, of letting go of you, was almost unbearable at the moment. He was holding you in his arms, could feel the warmth of you against him, the sweetness of your skin on his. How could he possibly let go so soon, with your heart right there beating against his?

When Enma finally gathered himself enough to pull away and meet your eyes, he nearly moaned at how wonderfully disheveled you looked. You smiled at him, the tilt of your swollen lips content and so _satisfied_ and he almost thought he could go again right then, just lay you down on the library floor and start making you moan and writhe all over again. But common sense and his own exhausted satiation kept him from trying—and likely embarrassing himself.

He blinked at you, feeling a tired smile tilting his lips despite his self-deprecating train of thought. You were beautiful like this, and he watched you carefully, trying to memorize every detail of this moment in case he never had another chance to see it again.

You leaned forward, dropping a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. He sighed happily, nuzzling his nose against yours when you started to pull away. You giggled, and Enma felt the sound to the far edges of his heart. What wouldn’t he give to hear you like this every day—voice soft and happy and sex-roughened. He’d make it his personal mission to hear it every night before sleep and every morning before leaving bed.

Your smile shifted to something Enma wanted very badly to call affection, and you bit your lip for a moment, fingers stroking along his jaw. “I don’t know about you,” you whispered. “But I think I’m going to skip the rest of the luncheon.”

Enma cocked his head at you, smile still soft on his lips. “Oh?”

You hummed in affirmative. “I suddenly don’t feel too well.” You leaned down to leave a sharp nip on his collarbone. Your eyes were bright, a mischievous gleam in them, and he found himself grinning back at you.

“Sounds like you shouldn’t be alone.” His voice didn’t sound as nervous as he felt, for which Enma was intensely grateful. He wasn’t used to being flirted with, and he was worried about overstepping his bounds. What if you wanted this to be a one-time thing?

You nodded, a solemn expression on your face. “You’re absolutely right.” Your hand drifted down to stroke your fingers along his neck and shoulder. “Can I count on you?”

Enma ducked his head to nuzzle at your neck as he answered. “I’d be happy to help,” he said, “for as long as you need me.”

“Oh, I think I’ll need you for a long time,” you said, hands back to playing in his hair. The teasing tone in your voice had him lifting his head to meet your eyes. You waggled your eyebrows at him. “I might end up _bed-ridden_.”

Enma snorted, choking on a laugh. He ducked his head again, shoulders shaking and feeling unaccountably _happy_. When he finally managed to contain his amusement and the almost giddy feeling in his chest, he peeked up at you with a smirk. “Then we’d better hurry you to bed.”

 


	3. #Thirst 3 – Living Room - Yamamoto

****

Yamamoto thrust harder, grip rough on your hips as you whimpered his name, trembling on your hands and knees in front of him. He loved it when you were like this—shaking and moaning and _his_.

He snapped his hips and then kept them tight against yours, grinding against you until you pleaded with him to _move_ and he slapped your ass. “What was that, babe? Didn’t catch it.”

Your curses probably weren’t supposed to sound so needy, and Yamamoto laughed, the sound a husky scrape even to his own ears. He leaned in close, still grinding his hips in small, sharp circles against you and trying not to get distracted by the— _tight, wet, heat, so fucking good_ —intense feel of you on his cock.

“Come on, babe,” he whispered in your ear. “I know you can do it. You’re so good for me, such a good girl, so fuckin _perfect_ for me, you can say it, baby, _say it_.”

“Please,” you moaned. “Please fuck me, Takeshi, _please_.”

Yamamoto groaned, and the suddenly vivid vibrations of the sound in his throat warned him this was probably a dream.  But he didn’t want it to be a dream, dammit, so he held tight to the sensation of your skin under his palms and thrust _hard._

His reward was your helpless wail of pleasure, the slick friction of that _tight, wet, heat_ on him and he let his head fall back with another groan. He was starting to lose touch with the scene, despite his stubborn grip on it, and when he felt your tongue swipe up his cock, he let out a hoarse curse as the whole thing shattered.

Yamamoto blinked at the ceiling, feeling a bit disoriented and—your tongue laving the head of his cock. He jerked his head forward, eyes meeting your dilated gaze as you lapped at his dick like it was the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted. You were kneeling between his legs on the couch, his sweats shoved down just enough to free his erection, and he dimly heard the title screen of the movie replaying over and over on the TV. But he couldn’t remember what you two had settled down to watch, couldn’t remember when he’d dozed off, could barely remember to _breathe_ as you took his tip into your mouth and sucked.

Another curse rasped out of him, and he delved a hand into your hair to get a grip on you. He needed the anchor more than any attempt at control, and when you slowly, _slowly_ started sucking him further and further into your mouth, he groaned your name and spread his legs a bit wider to give you better access.

He _felt_ you smirk around his cock at that, humming and working your tongue over him and dragging your sweet mouth up and down and up and down and it was all he could do not to thrust up, not to rut into that delicious heat. You were in control right now, and you looked _hot_ like this, and Yamamoto found the entire situation far too much of turn on to wrangle it from you. So when you set a rhythm that soon had him panting, he let himself enjoy it, slurring out praise and encouragement even as his hips twitched up in tiny, uncontrollable thrusts.

Both of his hands were tangled in your hair now, and he was trembling with the effort to stay still for you. He was also failing miserably, but you didn’t seem to mind much. You smiled around his cock whenever his hips jerked beneath you, and after you did something truly amazing with your tongue, he gasped out some garbled version of your name and you _moaned_ on him, loud and lewd and he could _feel it_.

And then you were trapping his gaze with yours and sliding down, down, _down_ and Yamamoto really did forget how to breathe as your lips brushed the base of his cock and your throat swallowed around his dick. He didn’t know what he said, didn’t know what language it was in or if he even managed actual words, but whatever it was had you pulling away with one long, wet suck, eyes dark and intense. And then your pants were shucked off, you were straddling him and he was guiding your hips down, mindless as he thrust up to meet your heat and then you were crying his name and _riding him_.

Yamamoto arched and gasped, thrusting to meet each quick, forceful roll of your hips, and you bit your lip before slowly sliding off your shirt. Your eyes stayed on his, your pace never slowing, as you unhooked your bra and eased it off, grasping and cupping your freed breasts until Yamamoto was moaning and pleading for a taste.

You laughed, the sound throaty and delicious and Yamamoto sat up, hands sliding up from your hips to replace your hands as he sucked a nipple into his mouth. You mewled his name, arching your back and carding your fingers through his hair, your hips still slamming down onto his over and over.

Yamamoto groaned against your breast, sucking a bruise onto the soft flesh and feeling lost in the rhythm of your body moving against his, the wet slide of you on his cock as you gasped and whimpered, lips pressed to his ear so he could hear every sound. He let a hand drift down to toy with your clit, wandering fingers first sliding over your mons and teasing at the slickness where you were taking him in and out, in and out, before finally moving to rub tight circles against your clit.

Your back bowed, pressing your breasts against his face, and the hard roll of your hips stuttered. Yamamoto groaned encouragement, continuing his work while your slick heat fluttered around his cock, his name echoing in his ears as you keened the syllables, your grip almost painful in his hair. He shifted to lightly bite down on a nibble, thrusting up to take over your faltering pace, feeling the hot pressure pooled low in his body, the tell-tale tightening in his groin.

He trailed his mouth up your neck to nip at the tender skin under your ear, pressing his lips there and murmuring for you to “Let go, baby, come for me, thought I was in heaven with your mouth sucking me off, _nngh_ , you feel so good, look so beautiful fucking yourself on my cock, I want you to come for me, baby, come for me and I’ll fill you up, come for me—” and he pressed harder against your clit, rubbing slick, fast circles and thrusting in short, hard pumps until you were coming, whimpering and shaking and _pulsing_ on him and Yamamoto flipped you over, pressing your body into the couch and thrusting wildly into you. You arched into him, nails scratching at his back and your heat tightening around his dick again and you were almost sobbing now, writhing and bucking and _fuck he was coming, too_.

He muffled his groan against your breasts, burying his face between them and thrusting through your orgasms until he collapsed, his body feeling boneless and drained. After a few seconds, he shifted to the side and pulled you against his chest, one hand stroking idly along your spine and the other massaging your scalp. You made a soft, happy sound and burrowed closer, wrapping your arms around his neck and swinging a leg over his hips. 

You both rested like that, waiting for your breathing to even out, for your hearts to stop pounding. You were nibbling at his collarbone, no doubt trying to leave a mark of your own, and Yamamoto grinned. The TV reset the title screen’s loop, and the music swelled to repeat the refrain yet again.

“We should take naps together more often,” he said.

You laughed, breaking away from sucking a bruise into his skin just long enough to say, “If you didn’t wake up so early in the morning, we’d be doing this _way_ more often.”

He considered your words, already trying to find ways to modify his morning routine without pissing off either Reborn or Squalo. It was…a challenge. But then again… Yamamoto’s mind flooded with all the different ways he could wake _you_ in the mornings. He smirked and said, “I think we can arrange that.”


	4. Confessional Booth – Xanxus

 

 

You weren’t completely sure how you got here.

The church was an old-school cathedral, with stained glass windows filtering the morning sunlight and the smell of incense permeating every breath. The bells had finished ringing a long while ago, the priest already intoning the call for the first set of prayers. The other Vongola were in the pews, the mafia’s traditions deeply ingrained no matter the changes Tsuna was making, and whatever his own religious inclinations, the Decimo couldn’t skip Christmas Mass.

The Varia, on the other hand, were actively discouraged from attending, since even on their best behavior they were rather disruptive. For the most part, this was not an issue, as the Varia in general had no interest in attending a crowded, long, _boring_ Latin service.

So, yes, you knew why you were in the massive, hundreds-year-old cathedral, but you weren’t entirely sure how you got _here_ , perched on a table in a side-hallway with Xanxus’s tongue in your mouth, each wet slide skillfully dismantling your every thought.

You’d been getting along quite well, despite his initial attempts to bully you (and your stubborn refusal to be cowed), and you’d begun to think he might actually _like_ you. Still, you hadn’t expected him to corner you in the vestibule, pulling you aside to press you hard against him while the opening hymns were sung in the next room.

His hands were calloused, rough on your knees as he pushed them apart to fit his hips between them. They drifted up your thighs to grasp your hips, squeezing and pulling you close against him. He was already hard.

You moaned, fingers carding through his hair and tongue tangling eagerly with his. His slacks left little to the imagination, and you realized the tall man was _big_ , the heat and length of him pressing against your panties. The same black, silken panties he’d had someone leave on your bed yesterday in an expensive-looking box, a note pinned to the matching bra that simply said, “Wear it tomorrow. –X”.

And you had, because despite every self-preservation instinct you possessed, you rather liked him, too.

And now here you were, your dress skirt slipping up your thighs, his hands rough on your hips and his mouth hot and wet on yours. You gripped his hair hard, thrusting your tongue hungrily against his when he slipped one hand back down your leg and up under your dress, touch almost teasing as he skimmed up the tender inside of your thigh.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle when they traced over your mons, pressing against the silky material right where you were growing wet for him, and you gasped, head falling back and body arching into him. Your hands released his hair to scrabble at his biceps, trying to ground yourself against the heat he was building with each stroke of his fingers.

He grinned against your jaw, moving to bite at your throat with a distinctly pleased sound. You felt the nip of teeth against your neck before he all but purred, “You wore it.”

You didn’t even really think, too distracted by the playful rub of his fingers against your slit, and just blurted out a breathy, “You asked so nicely.”

Xanxus paused, pulling back to stare intently at you for a second, two seconds, and then an almost feral grin was spreading across his face, his hand fisted in your hair, and he pulled your head back to shove his tongue back into your mouth. His other hand gripped your ass tightly under your dress, giving a hard squeeze before pulling you tightly against his straining erection and _grinding_.

His hard cock was pushed perfectly against you through your panties, rubbing and pressing in just the right places, and you whimpered and ground your hips right back. Your grip on his arms tightened, probably leaving fingerprint bruises on his biceps with how hard you were grasping him but neither of you cared.

Your panties were soaked by now, and it occurred to you vaguely that his pants were probably getting wet, too, but you couldn’t manage to hold onto that thought for more than a second, much less care about it.

It was hard to care about anything outside of Xanxus’s mouth sliding down your jaw to bite at your neck. He trailed little nips down your throat until he was sucking bruises onto your collarbone, all the while grinding and thrusting against you and you were trying _really hard_ to be quiet but he felt so good and the silky texture of the panties was gliding perfectly with the friction of his cock and you barely whimpered out an attempt at warning before you were coming, writhing and bucking against him and biting down hard on his shoulder to muffle the moan that was _definitely his name_.

Xanxus kept up his rhythm, hard jerks of his hips against yours as you all but keened against his shoulder and rode out your orgasm until you were trembling and limp in his arms. He nudged your head with his, hand groping at your ass while he waited for you to gather yourself, and you raised your face to his and kissed him. He returned it deeply, pressing against you harder and thrusting his tongue. You moaned, shivering and clinging to his shoulders.

He adjusted his grip on your ass and lifted you abruptly, your squeak of surprise swallowed by his mouth. He took a few long, firm strides to the end of the hall and into an empty confessional booth. The door shut behind him with a quiet _snick_ , and the only light was what filtered through the open-air slats cut into the top of the small, box-like structure. 

Your shoulder blades met the wood of the back wall, and you arched your back so Xanxus’s questing fingers could pull down the zipper on the back of your dress. He tugged down the top just enough to get at your breasts, not bothering to be careful with the strappy black bra as he shoved the silk cups down. His mouth latched onto your exposed flesh immediately, scraping his teeth and laving his tongue against a quickly hardening nipple while one hand slid up your thigh and beneath the panties to stroke firmly against your clit.

You moaned, feeling the heat of arousal and need building up again. Somehow, you managed to unbutton most of his shirt, but your fingers are growing clumsy, your attention torn between Xanxus’s fingers and mouth. You finally unfastened the last few buttons, not entirely sure you did so without ripping them off, but now Xanxus was pressing a hand against the underside of your thigh, urging you to wrap your legs high around his waist. You complied with a needy sound, arching into his touch and running your hands under his shirt to stroke them over the lean muscles of his back. 

You dug your nails into his skin, hips rocking against his hand, and Xanxus pulled back from lavishing attention on your breasts to kiss you, rough and demanding, and then you felt him fist his hand in those silky black panties and tear them off of you in one sharp yank.

You blinked dazedly as he pulled away from your lips with a final scrape of teeth, the metallic clink of his belt buckle loud in the tiny space of the confessional. You made an embarrassingly impatient sound when you felt the smooth, hot skin of his cock brush your thigh, and Xanxus’s answering grin was pleased as it was ravenous. His hands gripped your ass, and you shifted to get some leverage where your shoulders braced against the wall, eagerly helping him line himself up.

He was fully inside you with one hard thrust, and you couldn’t smother the surprised cry that tore from your throat. You felt so full, so _stretched_ by him, even being as ready and wet as you were, but he was _big_ and it felt both amazing and almost overwhelming and—the sound teetered into high, shaky moan. Luckily, the liturgy had finished a sequence, and your lewd noises were mostly covered by the congregation’s response of ‘amen.’

For a few breaths, you were both quiet, Xanxus panting lightly against your shoulder as you tensed around him, trembling and gasping and just taking a moment to _adjust_.

And then, “Open your mouth,” he rasped.

It didn’t even occur to you to disobey, your mouth opening as he pulled back and then the damp silk of your torn panties was a dull taste on your tongue, muffling your startled reaction. Xanxus looked entirely too satisfied with your obedience, and he stared at the improvised gag in your mouth for a few moments with a dark intensity that made you shiver.

And then his hand was back on your ass, squeezing and grinding you down onto his dick. You arched, pressing your breasts against his chest and scratching your nails down his back and not bothering to choke back your moan. The gag did its job, smothering the sound to a faint shadow of its full volume.

He took your enthusiastic response as his cue, and he drew back to thrust into you with an almost violent snap of his hips. Your head fell back with a muffled cry, your legs tightening around him to dig your heels into his lower back. Your nails were probably leaving welts on his shoulders, but Xanxus’s low groans and hard rhythm only encouraged you to be as rough as you needed to be with him.

 He was relentless in his pace, almost bruising, and you knew you’d have marks on your skin from where his hands groped at your ass and hips, pulling you into him even as your legs pressed him closer with each thrust. He’d have his share of marks, too, though, with the digging of your heels and the scratching of your nails as you met him thrust for thrust, your cries of pleasure swallowed by black silk.

The slick, smacking sounds of sex filled the confessional booth, and you felt like you were burning up from the inside. Each stroke of his thick cock was a delicious push of friction and heat, and you were growing mindless with the intensity of pleasure it stoked deep inside of you. Xanxus dipped down to suck one of your nipples back into his mouth, groaning around the flesh and thrusting harder as you began to tremble and arch, muscles twitching as the heat inside you wound tighter, tighter, and—

You came, back bowing and throat vibrating with the force of your smothered shout, writhing and shaking and tightening and Xanxus grunted, tearing his mouth from your breast and slowing his thrusts to long, hard strokes to extend your orgasm as long as possible. His forehead rested on yours, eyes dilated and greedy as he watched your face twist with pleasure.

It felt like forever and only a moment, your mind entirely lost to the pulsing heat until your muscles finally went lax. You filtered back to reality slowly, feeling abuzz with pleasure, and slipped a hand from around his back and up his chest to caress his jaw. He was panting hard now, but he was grinning, that almost feral tilt back on his lips.

“Again,” he grunted, and you really weren’t sure you _could_ , but then he moved one hand from its hard grip on your ass to lightly finger your clit, adjusting his hips so his slow thrusts were working his cock in and out of you at the most incredible angle and you felt the hazy buzz of your orgasm’s aftermath sharpening back into that demanding, coiling urgency. Your hand drifted from cupping his jaw to tugging at his hair, and your stifled whimper of disbelief went entirely unheeded.

You arched, shoving your breasts against him again and keeping them there while your bodies slid and jerked against each other, the friction delicious against your nipples, and it wasn’t long before you were a mess of need all over again, writhing and sobbing through the gag, his mouth hot and sucking hard on your neck and you knew you were going to have _so many damn hickeys_ from this man.

The choir had begun to sing, the voices high and layering over each other in the hymn, and Xanxus pressed his lips against your ear with an almost animalistic growl.

 “You feel so fucking good riding on my dick,” he grunted huskily, the pace of his hips steadily quickening. “My obedient little slut.” His teeth tugged your earlobe, a hungry growl rising in his throat. “You take my cock so fucking perfectly--do you like when I fuck you like this?”

You tried to answer, forgetting about the thick taste of silk in your mouth, and the sound was garbled and desperate beneath the song of the choir echoing through the cathedral. Xanxus must have heard, though, because he swore viciously in Italian and bit down on your throat. His thrusts were growing hard and fast, the fingers teasing your clit suddenly firm and insistent, and you came again, thankful for the gag because you were pretty sure you were screaming now.

Your whole body was trembling, pulsing, hot, and you lost track of time, of everything except Xanxus and what he was doing, how he was making you feel. And then his hips jerked hard against you, losing their rhythm as he rode through his own orgasm. He buried his face against your hair and groaned low and long, and you could feel the hot rush of his cum filling you up.

The choir wound down, a final, tremulous soprano holding its note for a few moments before fading off. You shuddered in Xanxus arms, feeling overheated and too sensitive and entirely exhausted. For a moment, he held you like that, bodies tight against each other, his softening cock still buried deep inside you, and you both panted and waited for your limbs to steady.

Then he planted a kiss on your temple, trailing his lips down to your jaw to gently press another firm kiss to the corner of your mouth. He raised a hand to tug the black silk from between your lips. You untangled your fingers from their death-grip in his hair as you took a deep, unimpeded breath. Your hand drifted to trace over one of his sharp, flushed cheekbones and you could see you badly your hand was shaking—how badly your whole body was still shaking—and Xanxus turned slightly to brush his lips against your wrist in the barest contact.

You shivered, and he smiled, sexy and heavy-lidded, and leaned in to give you a lazy, sloppy kiss, all slow drags of tongue and low, satisfied hums.

After a few moments, he finally pulled away, scraping his teeth on your bottom lip as he went, and the slick slide of his cock slipping from your over-stimulated body made you shudder. That smug grin flashed again, and Xanxus was almost gentle as he helped you unwind your legs from his waist.

You were surprised by how weak your legs felt, and you sent Xanxus a grateful glance when he waited until you were relatively steady on your feet before releasing your hips. He started pulling your dress back up and, after you adjusted it properly, zipped it up for you.

Xanxus tucked his cock back into his pants, and you started to put his shirt back to order, a slow, fumbling process given the state of your coordination at the moment. Xanxus silently helped you, moving your hands away when you ran out of buttons—you _had_ torn a few, it turned out. You bit your lip, mumbling something that might have been an apology if your voice weren’t so low and husky and raw.

When you peeked up at him from beneath your lashes, that pleased look was back on his face. You turned away with a blush, looking for your torn panties. They wouldn’t be much help to you at this point, but despite everything you couldn’t just _leave them in the fucking confessional booth_. You caught sight of them in Xanxus hand, and you blinked up at him. His grin took on that feral edge, and he made a show of pocketing the ruined silk.

You swallowed thickly and shift your weight uncomfortably, because now you were in a bit of trouble. You could feel the wet slide of liquid high on your thigh and you didn’t even have a scrap of torn silk to wipe it away.

Xanxus’s chuckle was low and dark, like rich chocolate, and then his hand was under your dress, skimming high on your inner thigh to trace his fingers through the leaking mess. You gasped, grasping at his shoulders—whether to steady yourself or stop him, you weren’t sure—but he was pressing hot little kisses to your throat and making that raspy growl.

“Look at you,” he said, lips brushing against the tender skin beneath your jaw, breath hot on your neck. Goosebumps flared up across your skin at the post-sex velvetiness lingering in his voice. “Already dripping my cum down your thighs. Such a dirty little slut,” he bit down softly on your flesh with a quiet groan. “My perfect little slut.”

You whimpered and buried your face into the crook of his neck, unsure what to do. You couldn’t go sit down for Mass—not with his and your cum steadily leaking down your leg. Your dress was going to be ruined and pretty much the entirety of the Sicily-based mafia would see, but you couldn’t just duck out without a good explanation—not in the very highly Catholic Italian mafia—and you were sure you could think of _something_ , but Xanxus’s teasing touch was gliding the slickness on your thigh up, up, up to tease at your mons, barely sliding the edge of his fingers between your slit and letting them lazily drift over your sensitive flesh, and his other hand was grazing his fingers against and between yours in a not-quite-hold and it was goddamned _distracting_.

You could hear the priest’s voice, the Latin words fluid and rhythmic, but your focus was entirely on Xanxus. He nibbled at your earlobe before finally withdrawing his hand from under your dress and stepping back in the narrow space.

“We’re leaving,” he said. It should have been a command, but the almost gentle tug he gave your hand and the way he angled his body in the tiny booth to let you pass felt more like a request.

“Since you asked so nicely,” you said, feeling a smile pull at your lips.

Xanxus grinned again, and you decided you rather liked that lazy, satisfied smirk. You took a few steps, unsteady and weak-kneed and leaning somewhat heavily on Xanxus’s arm as he led you out of the confessional booth, his face the very definition of smug male pride as he slid a hand around your back to plant it firmly on your hip.

“Car’s waiting out front,” he said, and you had a second to consider just how much of this encounter he had planned before he was shifting to cage you against the wall, not far from the table where you started this encounter. He hovered over you, eyes already darkening again in arousal. His fingers brushed over the flesh where your neck met your shoulder, right at the edge of the dress’s modest neckline and, from the sensitivity of the skin there, right on one of the marks he’d left. “Fair warning: that dress isn’t gonna make it halfway to the estate.”

You felt an answering thrill and wondered at his ability to _do that_ to you. “Fair warning,” you said, “I’m wearing _your_ coat inside then.”

His fingers were tender when he lifted his hand from your neck to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. But his grin was unmistakably sharp, _possessive_ , when he growled, “ _Good_.”


	5. Interlude - First Impressions - Mukuro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke the conceit of #Thirst. Already. Dammit.
> 
> WHELP. Hope ya'll enjoy civilian!Reader smut!

 

You were snuggled on the couch of his apartment when Mukuro’s phone chimed. He barely glanced at it, tossing it onto the coffee table and continuing to nuzzle love-bites onto your neck. 

“Not important?” you asked. 

He just ‘hmm’d in response and nibbled harder. You knew better than to take that as a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’—this was _Mukuro_ you were talking about and the man was the definition of mischief and trust issues.

Which was why you had agreed on a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy about his job. You didn’t pry beyond ordinary, safe questions, and he didn’t offer anything too specific. Odd, sure, but considering your suspicions about his career, his concerns were probably valid.

You didn’t really mind—Mukuro was cagey about a lot of things, but he was trying. And if he wanted his job to be separate from…whatever it was you two had been cultivating over the last year and a half, then so be it.

Besides, it meant you got to have more moments like this, covered in each other’s love bites, muscles sore in the most delicious ways, curled into each other on his couch in rather scandalous states of undress. He’d spent most of the night before trying to make your throat go hoarse from moaning, and this morning had been a series of soft, lazy moments of intimacy. It was perfect, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Mukuro’s mouth found yours, the gentle slide of his lips firmer, more insistent than they had been since he’d woken you up with his mouth on your clit a few hours ago. You moaned into the kiss and slid a bare thigh up his leg to hook on his hips, and his phone chimed again.

With a dramatic sigh, he gave your ass a pat and shifted to grab the device. You smiled and bit his collarbone before standing to stretch out sore muscles. You didn’t miss his appreciative murmur, the hot weight of his gaze as his shirt rode up on your body, and you threw a smirk over your shoulder.

“My friends are coming over,” he said.

You froze, eyes wide. “Wh….They are?”

He hummed again, eyes glued to your exposed legs.

Mukuro had always insisted you _never_ meet his ‘friends’. He used the term loosely, mostly because he loathed calling them his colleagues. It was a safer evil, in his mind. But for you it meant nearly the same thing—off limits.

You chewed your lip for a moment, then offered, “I suppose that’s my cue to put pants on.”

Mukuro grinned. “Sadly, yes.”

He reached out give your ass another fond pat, then stood and stretched himself. His sweats dipped dangerously low on his hips, and you found yourself rather distracted for a few moments, watching the long, lean lines of him as he reached over his head and arched his back. He was smirking when he relaxed, and he gave you an all-too-brief, lewdly wet kiss as he passed you and headed toward the bedroom.

Getting dressed with Mukuro was…challenging. He seemed diametrically opposed to your wearing clothes at the best of times, but when he was feeling frisky? It was almost _impossible_ to get—and keep—any single article of clothing on for long.

You finally banished him to wait in the kitchen, chagrined that you had _fewer_ garments on than when you’d started while he was casually dressed in jeans and a shirt.

You planted a kiss on his shoulder as you passed him in the kitchen, heading toward the entrance hall where your jacket was hung on a peg. You were in the process of pulling it on when Mukuro took hold of your hips, turning you to face him and settling you snug against him, your arms awkwardly trapped in the jacket.

He kissed you, slow and lazy and dizzying. “Leaving?”

You blinked at him, processing the question slowly because the man kissed like a drug. “I thought…my cue to put pants on…?”

Mukuro smiled, smug and devious. “Yes,” he said, “because I don’t like to _share_.” He gave your ass a firm squeeze on that last word.

You knew you were gaping at him, but you couldn’t stop. “You want me to meet them?”

He shrugged, like your meeting his ‘friends’ wasn’t a _monumental step_ for him, and leaned in to graze a kiss below your ear, flicking his tongue against the skin as his thumbs rubbed little circles into your hips.

“Are…are you sure?” you asked quietly.

Mukuro answered by pulling your hips into him—he was already hard again—and swallowing your surprised sound with a heated kiss. You moaned into the contact, shrugging clumsily out of your jacket and tangling your fingers into his hair. The kiss grew heated, tongues sliding against each other while Mukuro gently ground your hips together.

After a few moments, you broke away with a smirk and nipped his jaw. “Can’t have you in this state when they get here,” you murmured, sliding one hand down to squeeze him through his jeans.

Mukuro smiled, that mischief dancing in his eyes, and you decided you wanted to wipe the look off his face. Slowly drifting to your knees, you kept your gaze locked on his and unbuttoned his jeans. His smile sharpened, eyes dilating and breathing quickening as he realized what you were doing. You eased the zipper down, nibbling at the exposed skin above his boxer briefs before suddenly and quickly yanking them down with his pants.

His hands were already drifting into your hair, his erection bouncing free, and you wasted no time in licking a stripe up the underside of his cock before sucking the head into your mouth. He sighed deeply, the sound a bit ragged at the edges, and leaned back against the wall to let you set the pace.

You didn’t know how much time you had left, so you didn’t dawdle. You firmed your lips around him and took him deep, sucking and licking and keeping a brisk pace. You kept one hand tight at the base of his dick, the other fondling his balls just the way he liked, and you relished in the slide of him in your mouth. Your lips were soon tingling from the friction, you were starting to pant, and Mukuro was barely biting back little groans of pleasure.

His grip in your hair flexed, and you knew he was trying not to take over. Mukuro _loved_ being in control, and you always savored those infrequent times he relinquished it to you. He so often made a mess of you that it was always such a treat to make a mess of _him_.

Mukuro’s head fell back, a curse falling from his lips as you pressed him deeper into your mouth, swallowing around him and trying to pull him farther until your hand was flat on his pubic bone and your lips grazed your fingers. He gasped, his hips giving little thrusts as his hands fisted in your hair, and you knew he was either going to come or start face-fucking you. Probably both.

You moaned at the thought, still bobbing your head to take him all the way with each down-stroke, and Mukuro jerked, his hips meeting your rhythm as his cock twitched in your mouth. He grunted your name, jaw clenched, and you let his hands pull you into a frantic, staccato pace. A few more thrusts and his back was arching, his mouth falling open on a helpless gasp, and you sucked _hard_ just in time for him to freeze, his dick throbbing in your mouth as he came.

You felt him filling you up and tried to keep your pace through his orgasm, bobbing and swallowing until his body went lax and he weakly nudged your head away. You gave him a final suck and pulled away, smirking when he shuddered.

You met his dazed eyes and licked your swollen lips, tasting the salt of him on you, and then he was kneeling in front of you, his hands undoing your pants and fingers slipping greedily into your panties. Your cry of surprise strangled into a moan of pleasure when he slicked his fingers against your clit, his arm pulling you tight against him so you couldn’t move properly.

“Such a naughty little thing,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Maybe I should fuck you against the door so everyone can hear?” The pace of his fingers grew faster, harder, and you squirmed in his grasp, gasping his name like a plea. “Or perhaps the window? You’d make such a beautiful sight.”

Mukuro thrust his fingers into you without preamble, his thumb pressing quick circles on your clit and you arched, keening, as you felt your orgasm building fast. He kissed you hard, smothering your cries as you thrust helplessly against his hand. You thought you might have heard voices approaching in the hall, and the thrill of possibly being heard spiked through you right as he curled his fingers just right, and your wail of pleasure was barely muffled by his tongue in your mouth, your body shaking as you came in his arms.

 It took you a few moments to collect yourself, by which point Mukuro had set both your pants to rights. He helped you to stand, expression smug when you teetered on your feet a bit, but his kiss was tender, soft. You sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck and feeling content, warm, _safe_.

And then the doorbell rang, several _insistent_ peals, and you yelped, leaping away with a blush quickly rising up your neck. Mukuro laughed as you gaped at the door.

“Ah,” he said, that mischievous gleam lighting up his eyes. “Right on time.”

You just _stared_ at him. And then, “You _asshole!_ ” and you smacked his arm.

He just laughed harder, moving to answer the door—you could hear someone’s uncomfortable cough and just _knew_ they’d heard what was happening.

Your face felt like it was on fire, the heat spread across your cheeks, and you wanted to stuff yourself in the freezer to make it stop. You groaned and hid your face your hands. “This is not the first impression I want to make!”

“Oh but dear,” Mukuro said, hand on the doorknob as he paused just long enough to eye your flushed and bite-riddled neck lasciviously. “You look _so lovely_ in red.”


	6. Backseat – Dino

 

Dino sent you a heated look over his wineglass, and you bit your lip but kept your hand exactly where it was beneath the tablecloth. He’d been teasing you all night, careful touches here, light caresses there, and this was your chance for payback. So you kept your hand on his thigh, fingers high enough to graze the telltale bulge between his legs.

You had kept your touch teasing thus far, simply resting your hand on his knee when dinner began and slowly rubbing your palm up, up, up until your fingers were tight against the inside of his thigh. You let one finger trace the inseam of his dress pants a bit higher, brushing against the heat that poured off his straining erection.

The dinner was nearly over, and propriety dictated that you should stay past dessert to thank your host. That meant another hour at least, and so you knew you were being a bit cruel when you suddenly shifted your hand to fully cup Dino’s hard cock through his pants.

You felt him twitch under your palm, and you had to bite back a moan even as you heard Dino strangle off gasp. He was so _hard_ already, and you wanted him bare in your hand, in your mouth, between your legs, any way you could get him you _wanted him_.

Dino’s fingers shook as he carefully set his wineglass back down, his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown wide. You gave his cock a few short, slow strokes, nothing that would give you away and not nearly enough to be more than teasing at best. His breath stuttered and he had to clear his throat, reaching for his wineglass again and flashing you an almost pleading look.

You swallowed hard, biting your lip and pressing your palm hard against him, fingers gently working to circle him as best you could through his slacks. You watched, fascinated, as a muscle ticked in his jaw, his lips set firmly against a moan you knew rose just beneath.

When he shifted, letting his hips thrust just slightly against your hand, you had to strangle a gasp of your own. You must not have been very quiet, because Dino’s eyes were hot and dark on you, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he took in your expression. You had no doubt that you look half debauched already, lips swollen from your biting, face flushed with arousal, breathing just this side of fast. You knew your panties were damp, likely ruined with how wet you were, and you shifted your thighs against the hot ache between them. Dino’s lips parted, a sigh slipping past before his jaw was clenched and his eyes were _searing_.

You trembled and drew your lip between your teeth again, struggling not to be so obvious with your lust. And failing, if Dino’s sudden rising were any indication. He sent a look toward the head table—likely to Tsuna—and then he was urging you up and away, hand firm against your lower back.

Romario, bless the man, was three steps ahead, ducking out of the dining room just as Dino guided you to a discrete side hallway. You gasped when Dino’s hand immediately slipped down to roughly grip your ass, fingers digging into the flesh even as his mouth dipped to tug your earlobe between his teeth.

“I’m going to be in trouble for leaving early,” he growled, his breath hot on your neck and sending goosebumps across your skin. “I’ll have to punish you when we get home.”

You tried to answer but when you opened your mouth all that came out was a breathy moan. Dino growled again, giving your ass another hard squeeze before his hand was back to being politely at the base of your spine. And then he was sweeping you through the main hall and out the door, the car already waiting.

Romario opened the door quickly, keeping his gaze averted to the side as Dino ushered you into the backseat. The boss murmured something to his friend before slipping in behind you, and then the door was shut and you were alone with Dino.

The partition was closed.

Dino was touching you immediately, the car not yet moving before his hand was pushing your dress up your thighs, his mouth wet and hot on your throat. You didn’t bother trying to smother your moan now, hands pulling his jacket off and tugging at his shirt, craving skin to skin contact.

You heard the buttons rip, but you didn’t care. Dino shucked the shirt and pulled you into his lap, your dress riding high on your hips already. Your ruined panties didn’t last more than a heartbeat, and the remains of them joined Dino’s torn shirt on the floor.

Your head fell back when Dino’s clever fingers found your dripping folds. He didn’t bother teasing, pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. You immediately began rocking desperately against his hand. His teeth were leaving marks on your collarbone, where the low neckline of your dress teased with glimpses of cleavage, and you reached down yank open his slacks.

Dino groaned against your chest when you freed his erection, your hands wrapping firmly around his aching cock and stroking fast. He pulled down your dress, trapping your arms but freeing your breasts, and sucked a nipple into his mouth at the same time as he began thrusting up into your grasp.

You cried out, calling Dino’s name like a heathen prayer and he bit lightly at your nipple before pulling away with a scrape of teeth. He pulled your hands away from him and jerked your hips closer, hastily lining up his cock and thrusting inside you with a hard snap of his hips. Your wail of relief was swallowed by his mouth as he finally, _finally_ kissed you.

You rolled your hips down, meeting him stroke for stroke as his tongue tangled with yours in a parallel dance. His hands were rough on your hips, guiding you up and slamming you down onto his cock over and over until you were trembling and gasping against his lips.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, voice low and husky. “Come on my cock.”

You moaned and obeyed, fingers quickly finding your clit and rubbing quick, sharp circles until you felt your whole body drawn taut and needy. And then Dino was holding your hips still, pistoning himself up to slam into you from below and your back arched, his name a hoarse, gasping cry in your throat as you came hard.

Dino shoved his face between your breasts, small moans and grunts escaping him with every wet slap of skin against skin and then he was stiffening, whole body tense as he groaned against your chest. He shuddered against you, thrusting once, twice more as his cum filled you up in hot spurts before going boneless beneath you, panting and spent.

You pressed light, gentle kisses along his jaw as your heartrate and breathing slowly steadied, and Dino cuddled you against his chest, tucking your head under his chin and sighing contentedly. His hands stroked lazily up and down your spine, and even with the sticky wetness dripping between your legs, he didn’t withdraw his softening cock.

“So,” you murmured, fingers tracing little patterns against his chest. “How much trouble will we be in again?”

Dino huffed a laugh. “Reborn was there so, y’know, a _lot_.”

You grimaced and pulled away so you could drop a kiss on his nose in apology. “I’ll make it up to you?”

Dino’s grin was downright devilish. “Oh, you will,” he said, and his tone was that low, velvety rasp of pure sex. “I meant what I said about punishing you tonight.”  His hands dipped down to pull your hips against him, and you gasped when you felt his dick already hardening again. “I’ll have you begging for forgiveness before we even make the bedroom.”


	7. Front Drive - Squalo

 

Squalo liked to think he had high standards in women.

So, while he watched you over the course of the week efficiently navigate your work at Vongola HQ, return Bel’s and Fran’s sass with a careful blend of clever humor and soft placation, he felt himself somewhat justified in his attraction.

The problem, as it were, was his _immediate_ attraction.

It had been a long, frazzling day of wrapping up an early-morning mission and then high-tailing it across Europe back to Varia HQ, gathering _everyone_ up and then _travelling_ _with them_ to the Vongola Estates.

His resulting temper, Squalo thought, was perfectly understandable when they finally arrived late that night. He had marched into the main room of the south wing, where the Varia would be housed for the time being, and promptly had to take a moment to remember what he’d been about to yell at you. His brain had just sort of…stopped for a moment.

Well, no, it hadn’t _stopped_ , that would have been preferable. It had just very quickly changed gears to go in a completely different direction. And the result was an _embarrassingly_ long moment of distraction, filled with thoughts of snug skirts riding up thighs and flowy blouses with just enough buttons undone and curious, sharp eyes darkening just so.

When he’d managed to surface from the _very_ unprofessional fantasies, he was even more pissed off than before. He’d snapped something about not needing a fucking tour guide and tried to brush past you to the central double-doors, muttering rather loudly about air-headed secretaries hired more for their tits than their brains and generally just being an ass.

Your response had been downright chilly, casually observing that unless he wanted to sleep in the south court’s gardens, he’d need to use the slim door on the _right_. There had been renovations since their last visit (likely _because_ of their last visit), so the layout had changed.

“Otherwise, Mr. Superbi,” you had said, voice like so much ice, “I wouldn’t waste my tits _or_ my brains on toddling you to your bed-time.”

(Fortunately, everyone else had been walking somewhat slower than him and missed the exchange. But Xanxus, the _smart_ fucker, had noticed Squalo’s embarrassment before he could stifle it and managed to pry the story out of him before morning. Shitty boss had thought it _hilarious_.)

And then the next morning, when Xanxus was grumbling about waking up with a hangover to babysit a bunch of stupid kids playing at Mafia, you’d just smiled and fetched him a generous shot of whiskey to sneak into his coffee (hair of the dog that bit him, you’d said). The belligerent Varia boss was significantly more willing to sit through the day’s first meeting after that.

And Squalo for his part had the distinct sense that he was well and truly _fucked_.

He’d made a point to watch you after that. And yes, your intelligence and practicality were definite positives, but they nonetheless occurred to him after his dick—and, okay, _maybe_ his head, too—had apparently already decided you were perfect.

Squalo _did not like_ that. The Varia second-in-command could not afford to be so flippant in affairs or relations, no matter how brief or casual they may be. Hell, _especially_ if it were brief and casual. That’s how the Vongola lost a right hand a few generations back.

So the urge to toss you over his shoulder and try out that guest bed barely the day after he met you was more than a little problematic for him. And not _just_ because he liked to think his standards were absurdly high. Because they _were_. You just happened to meet them. Very quickly.

But Squalo was stubborn and goddammit but he was a professional. And that meant no, he was _not_ going to fuck the Vongola Decimo’s secretary in the south court gardens. Even if he thought about it more than he’d like.

It didn’t help that you often stayed late to better manage their stay—likely on Sawada’s orders and _very_ likely to derail any need to remodel the south wing a second time. But because Squalo insisted on walking you out to your car (because maybe he felt _a little_ guilty about being such a raging asshole when you first met), it meant he walked you through the main room almost every night. It meant he thought about pressing you against those large double doors, or secreting you to a small alcove in the gardens, or just laying you out in the center grotto and to hell with avoiding an audience.

It meant that most nights, much like _tonight_ , he was trying very hard not to stare at you or the doors or _anything at all_ while you both walked through the main room.

You murmured a quiet thanks as he held the door for you, and his hand automatically came up to rest on the small of your back as he walked you through the massive central wing to the front doors. You didn’t protest.

Squalo ignored the spike of warmth in his gut, hyper aware of how warm you felt under his hand with only the intervening layer of today’s thin blouse. It wasn’t actually sheer, he told himself; but if he looked hard (and he _wasn’t_ ), he thought he could see tiny catches of lace underneath. He trained his eyes straight ahead, keeping his hand perfectly still and completely _polite_ on your back.

It didn’t take long before you were walking through the main foyer. He cleared his throat and opened the doors to the side of the grand entrance, but hesitated when he didn’t see your car waiting in the driveway. Or any car at all.

“Where the fuck’s your car?”

“Oh, it’s in the shop—Enzo, I’m afraid,” you answered blithely, as though having a massive turtle stomp your sedan were a common occurrence. Then again, Squalo considered your regular colleagues. The Cavallone’s particularly scatter-brained behavior the last few days was probably nothing out of the ordinary for a high-level Vongola administrator.

You moved to walk past him and Squalo gripped your elbow, careful to not hold too tightly. “Then the Vongola brat’s sending a car.” It wasn’t a question, because that little shit had _better_ have made arrangements for his own damn secretary.

You cocked your head at him, frowning a little. “No,” you answered. “The Vongola fleet is tied up with all our guests at the moment, and I didn’t deem it necessary.”

Squalo stared at you, taken aback. “Didn’t deem it—so how the hell are you getting home?”

“It’s not far,” you said. “I walked here this morning, I’ll walk home this evening.”

When Squalo just continued to stare, you gently pried your arm from his grip and kept walking. “Have a good night, Mr. Superbi.”

“ _Hell_ no,” Squalo knew he was being far too loud for the late hour, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. He practically stomped after you. “You want to get fucking kidnapped? ‘Cause that’s how you get _fucking kidnapped_.”

You had the nerve to flash him an exasperated look over your shoulder, but you didn’t slow. “I appreciate your concern,” you said, even as your tone implied otherwise. “But I can take care of myself. Reborn himself made sure of it.”

“I’m driving you home.”

You actually looked startled at that before annoyance darkened your expression. “That’s not necessary.” You turned your head forward and promptly ignored him, walking a bit faster than before.

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” Squalo snapped, his longer stride easily keeping pace with you. “Either I’m driving you home or I’ll follow you the whole damn way on foot.”

You narrowed a hard look at him, slanting your eyes to the side and stubbornly walking _faster_. You were nearly to the massive iron gates, the sloping drive flanked by meticulously trimmed trees. “Mr. Superbi, with all due respect, you barely tolerate me. Why would I subject myself to even a moment in a car with you?”

It felt eerily quiet, the thick trees absorbing the crunch of fine gravel underfoot, and Squalo was very aware of your every moment beside him. So much so that it took him a moment to register your words. “I’m twice as stubborn as you and—wait, what?”

You sighed and finally stopped, pinching the bridge of your nose. After a moment you squared your shoulders and sent him sharp look that was probably supposed to be intimidating but instead went straight to his dick. Fuck, how did you do that to him?

“I am grateful that you’ve been civil,” you said, tone just this side of glacial. “But please do not push yourself. I’m sure your patience is needed more elsewhere—you know how Xanxus is with tequila.”

Squalo did not want a reminder of his shitty boss hammering down half a bottle after the last meeting, did not want to think about dealing with him in the morning with _that_ hangover. No, he’d much rather focus on something else, like how your chest heaved slightly with your ire, the thin blouse pulled taut over your breasts.

“You think I can’t tolerate you?” He had meant to sound gruff and mocking, but it came out way too loud and more than a little distracted. He suddenly wanted very much to know what kind of bra you were wearing. He told himself it would be something practical, comfortable, but you were definitely the type to wear sexy for the confidence boost and he swore he could _almost_ see the outline even in the dim lights of the main gates. Bless that blouse. He bet it’d rip something nice.

You blinked at him, confusion filling your face. “You made that rather clear when you first arrived.”

Squalo took a moment to remember the conversation, not nearly as irritated by his distraction as he rightly should be. When his brain caught up with his dick, he growled out a curse. It was true that he had been…aloof the first few days of this trip, but he’d been _trying_ to keep his hands to himself. It was hardly an excuse, and he couldn’t blame you for getting that impression. Which left only one way to go from here, even if the very idea made him want to stab something. “What? You want me to apologize?”

“I doubt you’re capable of it,” you said, glare sharp.

He hated how much he loved that look on your face, that no-nonsense, I-will-eviscerate-you look. There was probably something very wrong with him, but he _liked_ that you didn’t take shit from him. He liked that you could handle him even when he was being an unbearable bastard.

Squalo stepped close, feeling his heartrate pick up when you didn’t back away. You glared up at him, raising a brow in challenge. His pride screamed at him, but he was close enough to smell your perfume and his libido was quick to quash his misgivings.

“I apologize for being an insufferable shit-heel,” he said, smothering the jab of glee when surprise flickered across your face.

It was your turn to stare at him, taken aback. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Squalo smirked, raising a hand to your chin and closing your mouth for you.

“It’s not that I can’t tolerate you,” he continued, letting his fingers stroke along your jaw. You didn’t stop him. “It’s that I want to fuck you senseless and it’s distracting as hell.”

Your cheeks flushed, eyes widening in surprise, lips parted just so, and Squalo decided this was a close second for hottest expression he’d seen on your face.

“That’s…” You swallowed thickly, but your voice was still breathy when you tried again. “That’s incredibly unprofessional.”

Squalo laughed, a sharp bark of amusement. “Why do you think I’m so pissed off?” He dipped his head close so he could growl in your ear, grinning when you didn’t pull away from him. “You’re smart, you’re competent, you’re beautiful.” He grazed his teeth along your earlobe, biting back a moan when he _felt_ you shiver in response. “You’re fucking _perfect_ and all I’ve thought about this week is pushing you against a wall and making you _scream._ ”  

“Oh…” The sound was just this side of a moan, surprised and husky and Squalo couldn’t resist running his hand down your neck, splaying his palm on your collarbone above that blouse and the teasing edge of your bra beneath. Definitely something lacy.

“Now I’m going to walk you the fuck home,” Squalo said, and the raspiness in his voice surprised him for a moment. “And if you want, that’s the end of it. You close your door, I walk away, and this conversation never happened.”

He risked skimming his lips against your throat, pausing when he felt your pulse pounding beneath his mouth. You shuddered and he groaned, flicking out his tongue to taste the delicate skin above the artery.

“But if not,” and Squalo barely recognized his own voice—couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been so worked up. He’d barely _touched_ you for fuck’s sake!—as he murmured the words against your neck. “If not, I will give you _multiple_ screaming reasons to remember how much I ‘tolerate’ you.”

You didn’t respond. He could feel you trembling under his hand, his lips, but you didn’t move, didn’t speak, and he refused to do any more without explicit consent. Still, it was harder to pull away than he wanted to admit.

He was about to step back, to give you space, when your hands were suddenly clutching his hair and smashing his lips against yours. Your grip was desperate, your tongue sliding urgently against his as he responded, and his hands found your hips like they’d always belonged there, pulling you close and rubbing the hard ridge of his cock against you.  

You _whimpered_ against his mouth and Squalo was done for.

It only took a few steps to usher you off the main drive, into the shaded coverage of the manicured trees. He pressed you against a trunk and you arched into him, pushing your breasts into his chest and making the neediest sounds he’d ever heard.

He broke the kiss to stare down at you, panting and so hard he was throbbing and for a moment he forgot what he was going to say, because you stared up at him with swollen lips and blown pupils, gasping for breath as your fingers tugged him down again. No, he decided, _this_ was his new favorite expression on you.

“I need you to tell me,” he finally growled. “Tell me what you want.”

You reached up and crushed your mouth against his in a bruising kiss, and Squalo thought he’d have to pull away again and _make_ you answer, but then you were drawing his bottom lip between your teeth, scraping roughly before you released him and said in a husky whisper, “I want you to fuck me.”

There was a blinding second of mindless lust, and Squalo thought he might be having an aneurism, but then he was shoving his tongue back in your mouth and you were moaning and pulling his hair, arching your chest into him. He barely had the sense to shift you further into the trees, more out of sight of the main gates, but he was rapidly losing the ability to think beyond the feel of you against him and how much he wanted _more_.

Your blouse didn’t last, and Squalo took perhaps too much joy in ripping the front to expose the silvery cups of a modest but lacy bra. He shoved a thigh between your legs as he pulled one cup down, groaning at the feel of your soft flesh in his palm. You mewled as he stroked a thumb over your nipple, hiking one leg up onto his waist and grinding down on his thigh.

Squalo ducked his head to taste your breast, moaning against you as he sucked and nibbled until you were gasping above him. Your hips kept rocking on his thigh, your skirt working its way higher and higher and he couldn’t resist sliding his hand up your leg to help it along and _fuck_ you wearing stockings. His fingers tightened on the lacy top, dipping beneath the elastic keeping it in place to tease himself with the textures of skin and nylon.

He was drawn out of his distraction when he heard the metallic clink of his belt buckle, suddenly aware that you’d released his hair to tug frantically at his pants. Squalo watched as you yanked the cloth to the side, his erection bobbing from the force before your eager hands were surrounding him. Fascinated, he gasped and let you stroke him, half in love with the sight of your fingers exploring his cock, learning the shape and feel of it as you leaned forward to nip sharply at his jaw.

Your leg dropped and you were on your knees, and Squalo had no concept of your moving—you were simply against him and then not, your fingers never ceasing to stroke and grip and pull until he was entirely unable to focus on anything else. And then you were stroking a tongue up the underside of his dick, pausing to flick against the crown and then trailing your lips down again to suckle at his balls.

Squalo had no idea what he said, or how loud he was, but the dim awareness that he was saying _something_ hovered at the edges of his mind, his hand already cupping the base of your skull to urge you closer. He must have said something good, because you flashed him a sexy little smile before you swallowed him down nearly halfway in one hot swoop.

He was _definitely_ being loud. He had to be, because when he bit his lip hard enough to bleed, focusing on clamping his mouth shut, he was rewarded with the wet, lewd sounds of you sucking his cock. Resolved to never again drown out that beautiful noise, Squalo clenched his teeth against a litany of curses and just let himself watch you work.

You tried to take him deeper, but he was tall and the angle wasn’t ideal, and you gagged when he hit the back of your throat. He nearly came with the feeling of your throat squeezing him for a second before you pulled away, coughing and gasping and gripping the base of his dick tightly. Your makeup was a mess, your face flushed and damp with saliva and his precum and you were the hottest thing he’d ever fucking seen.  

He stopped you when you moved to take him down again, knowing he was right on the edge and needing to back off if he wanted to feel you coming around his dick. So he pulled you up and pressed you against the tree, smothering your disappointed mewl with his mouth. He’d never been enthusiastic about tasting himself, but he liked it better on your lips than he would have thought. And he suddenly wanted to mix that flavor with yours.

Squalo kneeled and threw your leg over his shoulder, burying his nose against your mons and groaning at how wet your panties were already. You whimpered and arched, fingers tangling in his hair as he shoved your underwear aside and licked your slit in a long, firm stroke. Your hips jerked against his face and he grinned, latching onto your clit, his tongue circling and flicking while he sucked. You were a mewling mess in moments, tugging hard on his hair and he laved the flat of his tongue against your clit, wiggling and rubbing in constant pressure until you were shaking against him.

He considered pulling away, teasing you just before you could orgasm, but you were making the most delicious sounds and Squalo found himself loving every gasp and incoherent murmur. When you came, back bowing and keening his name, your fingers fisting almost painfully in his hair, he groaned and reached down to squeeze his aching cock, feeling shaky and close and wanting inside you so badly he felt half crazed with it.

You were still coming down, trembling and whimpering and dazed, when he stood and wrapped your legs arounds his waist. He kissed you hard, thrusting his tongue into your mouth and moaning at the combined tastes. You locked your ankles behind him and rocked down against him, and Squalo was lost for a few seconds in the feel of your damp panties and slick folds sliding against his cock. Your hand slipped under his jacket, grasping at the muscles there with an urgency he felt in his very bones. He braced his left hand on the tree and yanked your panties back out of the way with his right, growling something appreciative when you gripped his cock and rubbed the head of his dick between your dripping slit. He groped at your ass, keeping you steady as you lined him up.

You met his upward thrust with hard roll of your hips, and Squalo was left breathless. He buried his face in your neck, a shaky sound escaping him as you murmured mindless pleasure in his ear, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of _hot wet tight_ and then you were clenching down on him, shimmying your hips and grinding him deeper and Squalo lost control.

He was being too rough, some distant part of his mind was certain. But you were giving him the most perfect gasping cries, scrabbling your nails over his back hard enough to feel through his shirt, arching and writing and rolling your hips in perfect time to his fast pace. You scraped your teeth along the ridge of his ear, pressing your lips against the shell and mewling his name, your gasps hot on his neck and sending electric pulses down his spine to curl in his groin.

Squalo bit down on your shoulder, hyper aware of every quiver and slide of his cock in you and desperate not to drown out the quick, wet slaps of your fucking. He snapped his hips harder, savoring the increasing franticness of your voice and the lewd noises your bodies made. And then you gasped, moaning something inarticulate and jerking hard, muscles twitching and tensing and it was all he could do not to let his head fall back with a shout as you came around him.

He was right behind you, biting down harder than he meant to as his whole body felt awash in heat, his head spinning and his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on your ass as his hard trusts stuttered and he buried his dick as deep as he could inside you before he was growling and pulling out, coming hard against your front. He unlatched his mouth from your shoulder so he could watch each stripe of cum spatter across your abdomen, your skin looking perfect beneath the white smears dripping down the soft flesh.

Squalo stared, jaw lax and cock twitching, his mind buzzing with post-coital bliss. He grunted with approval, and while he was reluctant to clean the sexy mess from you, his higher cognitive functions were returning and he was becoming gradually more aware of how vulnerable you were, standing just off the main drive and weak with your orgasms. So he gently used your torn blouse to wipe away his cum, promising himself he’d paint you again the moment you let him.

You pulled him close, your legs still wrapped around him as you braced against the tree. Squalo grinned and tucked you against his chest, relishing in the quick pounding of his heart and the fine tremors still rocking your limbs while you panted into his neck. You shivered and he made a mental note to lend you his jacket for the walk to your place. He’d take you back to his room in the estate if he thought you’d let him, but he was probably pushing his luck—what with fucking you on the goddamned Vongola driveway.

You pulled away from him gently, your breathing much steadier and a blush filling your face as he helped you unwind your legs from around him and regain your footing. A few moments later, your skirt was back in order and you were wrapped in his jacket as he guided you back to the drive with an arm around your waist.  

Squalo gripped your hip possessively as he contemplated his next move. If he were honest, he hadn’t expected to get this far with you—hadn’t expected to _allow_ himself to—but he wasn’t going to surrender an advantage when he got one. He had very high standards in women, after all, and you met all of them; like _hell_ he was letting you get away now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll have been super generous and kind. <3 Thank you~


	8. Hood - Skull

 

 

Skull looked terribly tense in the driver’s seat. You supposed it could be just that he wasn’t used to driving anything with more than two wheels, but you suspected it had more to do with Reborn’s warning looks earlier at the gala. And Colonello’s. And Tsuna’s.

You sighed quietly, knowing that Reborn was just being Reborn, Colonello was always game to play along when it was at Skull’s expense, and Tsuna…well you were his secretary. He had a vested interest in this sudden and unexpectedly heated relationship with a former arcobaleno.

And Skull was trying, you could tell. He’d been a gentleman all night, forgoing his motorcycle to drive you to and from the gala in a nice car, and staying on his absolute best behavior through several dances, a very long dinner, and a fairly one-sided ribbing from his old compatriots. Oh, and a shovel talk from your boss. That was a nice touch. You’d have to remember to over-sweeten Tsuna’s coffee next Monday.

You worried your lip between your teeth, watching Skull stiffly check his blind-spot before shifting lanes. He moved like he had metal rods in his joints, and you felt a little bad for him. The night hadn’t been as romantic or fun as either of you had hoped, and Skull had been too terrified of the men watching him like hawks — and, in Falco’s case, literally so — to do more than politely hold your hand on the way to the car afterwards.

He deserved to relax, you decided. And you were just going to have to help him.

Slowly, so as not to startle him, you reached over and lay your hand on his knee. He twitched, but looked over with a small smile. Then his eyes were back on the road — like a _responsible_ driver; he really was trying so hard — and you started to gently rub your thumb in tiny, soothing circles. You could practically see the tension melt out of his smile in tiny drips and drops until, while he still held himself fairly rigidly, his expression had at least eased.

Stage two: initiate. You let your hand slowly, slowly inch up his thigh in the tiniest increments, thumb still rubbing and your fingers giving soft little squeezes with each upward slide. There was a whole new kind of tension in his shoulders now, and he kept shooting you these nervous, darting looks.

When your hand paused, high on his thigh, he shifted and made a pleading noise. “I’m—I’m driving,” he said, but his voice was low and uncertain, like he really didn’t want to protest but felt he should. “S’not safe…”

“You’re the greatest stuntman,” you all but purred, delighting in the small gasp the words pulled from him. “I have faith in you.”

Your hand glided the rest of the way up, moving to palm the bulge hardening in his pants, and that tiny gasp became a pleading moan. Skull shifted again, his hips lightly pushing against your hand in the limited space. You answered by pressing back, rubbing your palm against the thickening shaft until you found the hard metal of the piercing in his cockhead and squeezed. The sound Skull made at that was downright delicious.

You watched his throat as he swallowed thickly. His eyes darted to his blind-spot as he changed lanes again, the street lights becoming sparse as you drove further into the residential district. It was getting harder to see if his face.

Frowning, you leaned closer and nuzzled against his neck, bringing your other hand over to stroke teasingly at his thigh while the other kept up its light, squeezing torture on his swollen cock.

He may have whimpered, it was too quiet to tell for sure. And that just wouldn’t do, now would it?

The zipper of Skull’s pants was a loud rasp, drowned by the hiss of his suddenly indrawn breath. And then you were ducking under his arm, pulling his cock free, and sucking it down.

Skull’s reaction was immediate: a loud, helpless cry of pleasure and the hard jerk of his hips, the car’s speed jumping before he was able to ease his foot from the pedal. A hand found your hair almost immediately after, tangling but not guiding, just anchoring itself while Skull started whimpering louder with every wet slide of your mouth on him.

He was easy to work up, you knew, and he had a particular fondness for blowjobs. Still, as your tongue caught and rubbed at the piercing in his glans, making Skull shudder and whine and clench his fingers in your hair, you thought that this seemed to be especially getting to him.

You gave a hard suck that hollowed out your cheeks and fluttered your tongue around the sensitive head of his cock. He started babbling incoherently, pleas and praise and promises as his hips jerked again. So you swallowed him down almost to his base, humming low in your throat and sliding your hand further into his pants to gently fondle at his balls.

His whole body jerked, and the sound he made was loud and lewd. His babbling became more frantic, more breathless as he rambled, “Babe—please—I can’t—I’m gonna—babe, _please I_ —”

You let your mouth pop off his dick with one last, lingering suck, and Skull’s hips tried to follow you while he bit his lip against the gasping, pleading whimpers climbing from his throat. His eyes were dilated, glazed over, and his whole face was a portrait of tortured need. You recognized that expression, usually the result of some play that entailed strict orders, punished disobedience, and a pre-discussed safeword Skull never seemed to want to use. He took in a shuddering breath, his eyes darting around the road, and the hand in your hair was trembling badly.

Yes, you decided, car sex _really_ got to him.

“M’sorry,” he gasped. “Nearly there, promise, and I want you so bad, but the _car_ and—the road and—and—” He cut himself off with a pained whine.

You shushed him gently, laying a soft kiss on the head of his cock before rising to stroke his hair and murmur sweet praises in his ear. “So good,” you whispered between small, feather-light kisses. “So good for me, you did so well, keeping us safe while I sucked your cock, you’re so good for me, my good boy.”

He took another long, shuddering breath and leaned into your stroking hands with a needy sound. You continued to soothe him, stroking his jaw and his hair and dropping lingering little nips and kisses on his neck and shoulder. You knew from experience that you didn’t have to touch his cock — the attention and the praise would keep him plenty hard — and you weren’t far from home now, anyway.

Maybe a minute later, Skull turned onto your block. With a sound of relief like he’d been released from a particularly heinous torture device, Skull pulled into your garage, slammed the parking brake on and shoved the gearstick into park while the automatic door trundled close behind the car.

He was already reaching for you, mumbled pleas and apologies still on his lips, and you undid your seatbelt, reached under the front cushion to push his seat back, pulled the skirt of your dress up, and climbed into his lap. He was almost frantic, hands sliding over you and mouth pressing along your jaw and hips making small, desperate little thrusts against your panties.

It was a tight fit, and the steering wheel was digging into your back and your knees were uncomfortably wedged on either side of Skull’s hips, but you were determined to make it work, feeling a little cruel for working him up so badly. You hadn’t known road head would have such a strong effect on him, but apparently it was a hot button for Skull.

“Safeword?” you asked, dragging your lips across his cheek.

“R-Reaper.”

“Good boy.” You grinned and ground your hips down against him, relishing in his groan. “You’re so hard for me,” you murmured against his mouth, and his little pleas quieted immediately as he became raptly attentive to your words. “So ready to fuck me. Did you like my mouth on your cock while you drove?”

You leaned to nip at his throat while he nodded.

“If you’re _really_ good, I’ll ride you on your bike later,” you said, voice husky. “Would you like that, too?”

You watched as his mouth dropped open a bit, eyes going hazy and distant as he imagined it. His breathing had grown hard, and his pupils were blown wide enough to swallow all but the thinnest sliver of purple in his irises. His cock was a hard, throbbing heat against you, and you felt it twitch eagerly at whatever scenario he was imagining.

You smiled at him, all heat and sultry promise, and reached down to take him in hand. He groaned, gaze snapping back to attention as you shoved your panties aside and sank down on him. Your moan made a lovely harmony to his breathless, wordless cry, his hips jerking up and his hands, shaking, sliding down to grasp at your thighs.

“Ah, ah,” you said, ignoring how thick and breathless your own voice sounded. “Hands on the headrest.”

Skull whimpered pathetically but complied, his arms rising so he could clutch tightly to either side of the cushion behind his head.

“Good boy,” you cooed, and clenched your pelvic muscles. Skull shuddered, a full-body affair, but his hands remained on the cushion, fingers digging deep furrows into the soft padding.

“Stay like that until I say,” you said, the words murmured between little bites along his jaw. “And I’ll let you fuck me against the hood of the car. Can you do that for me?”

Skull was nodding before you even finished, a hasty, eager movement as he watched you, entranced.

“Such a good boy,” you breathed, and started moving.

You watched the erotic shift of expressions on Skull’s face, pleasure and determination and longing, his soft noises of pleasure slowly escalating with each hard roll of your hips against his. You didn’t have the mobility you wanted to ride him properly, but the thick weight of his cock slid perfectly against you with each short, hard rock of your hips, and you were soon gasping and moaning along with him.

Skull’s eyes were dark and intense, watching your face with an awe that you were never quite sure what to do with. He loved watching your face during sex, liked knowing he was pleasing you, liked that you saw and wanted _him_. You could relate, to be honest: he was beautiful to watch like this.

You recognized the quivery feeling in your thighs and reached down to rub lightly, teasingly at your clit. Your body clenched down at the spike of pleasure it brought, and Skull groaned, shivering as the muscles in his arms flexed, his grip on the headrest vice-tight. You could feel the sharp tension of an orgasm quickly coiling, heat pooling enticingly and you sped up your pace, chasing it.

“M’close,” Skull whimpered seconds later. “Please, please, I— I’m s’close, please—”

“Me, too,” you said. You ground your hips against his in a tight circle, and he made a gasping, desperate sound. “Can you hold on for me?”

But Skull was shaking his head, eyes growing a little wet as he stuttered out a negative. You paused immediately, stroking your hands through his hair and quieting him. “S’okay,” you reassured, breathless and so close to orgasm you could taste it as it slowly faded. You kissed him, soft and deep and soothing. “So good for me, you obeyed perfectly, you can let go now, such a perfect boy for me.”

His hands were off the cushion and around your waist almost too quickly to follow. He buried his face in your neck and nuzzled the flesh there, hips giving a needy little thrust while he waited for your next orders.

Your fingers fumbled for a second on the door handle, but you finally opened it and, feeling a bit unsteady in the knees, carefully extricated yourself. Then you coaxed Skull out, murmuring your praise while he made soft, pleading noises in the back of his throat and wrapped himself back around you. You’d made a damn mess of him, you realized with not a little pride. You really wanted to drag him upstairs and tie him to the bed, to ride him hard and fast until he was fully incoherent — but you’d made a promise.

“How do you want me?” you asked, stroking delicate fingers down his jaw. Facing him would be difficult on the hood, with the slope of the metal and no leverage points. And, to be fair, if this were a reward then you should give him a bit of power back. “Want me to bend over the hood? Let you fuck me from behind?”

Skull groaned at that, long and tortured, and you knew you had your answer. You turned in his arms, bracing your hands on the hood of the sleek, dark car and arching your back to present your ass.

Your dress skirt was roughly shoved up around your waist, your panties tearing a little as Skull pulled them aside and eagerly thrust back into you. You gasped, falling to your elbows for better leverage on the waxed metal and pushed back into the fast, demanding pace he set. The curved barbell in his glans pressed a hard slide against your G-spot as he pounded into you, desperate and wanting.

The hood of the car felt cold against your front, your hands leaving damp streaks as you tried not to claw at the paintjob. Your denied orgasm was back on the rise, the tension leaping back to unbearable levels within moments. The garage was echoing with erotic noises, Skull’s loud moans and your own climbing cries all but drowning out the harsh, wet sounds of your bodies moving together.

Skull’s fingers were tight on your hips, and with a frantic noise he pushed your knees farther apart with his own legs, pulling your ass higher up and suddenly you were almost shouting, the angle sending little shooting lights across your vision and every muscle was clenching and shaking and you were _right there_. Another hard, bruising thrust, and another, and you were writhing against the hood, gasping Skull’s name and coming hard.

Skull buried his face in your hair, his chest tight up against your back as his thrusts grew sloppy and shallow. He cried your name with a high keening sound as he began to shudder. One last, deep thrust, and he froze, body locked in place as he shook and whimpered and heat flooded you.

With a final, shaky moan, Skull went lax behind you. The hard edge of his facial piercings sent a shiver through you as he nuzzled your shoulder blade affectionately, and you reached down to lace your fingers with his where it still rested, weakly now, on your hip.

After a few more moments, you trusted your legs enough to stand. Gently, you turned and enveloped Skull in a warm hug, and his arms were loose and warm around you as he huffed soft, happy little sighs against your neck. It would take him a few more minutes to regain speech after his orgasm — and especially so after such an intense round of sex. So you nuzzled him and hummed sweet little nothings against his shoulder until he was ready to head inside.

“…was good?” he husked a little later.

“Very,” you answered, giving him a deep, lingering kiss that pulled another happy little sigh from him. “Want to soak in a bath or cuddle in bed?”

He hummed, eyes still a little glazed and his expression suffused with sated contentment. “Cuddle in a bath?”

You smiled at him. “Sounds like a plan,” you said, leaving another slow kiss on his lips. He responded lazily but thoroughly. He was _very_ relaxed now, and you couldn’t help but grin as you led him to your bathroom, his fingers laced with yours.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I want Skull to be a major sub, but apparently that's my hc. I think he'd be more the bratty-type, but in the end, that boy just wants a strong dom he can trust.


End file.
